


Adventures of a Bard and his Pirates

by TheMalapert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anal Sex, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, Bard Jaskier | Dandelion, Baths as Plot Devices, Big Fucking Fish, Blow Jobs, Bro Bathing, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain Geralt, Cat School (The Witcher), Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), M/M, Meet the Family, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Minor Eskel/Coen (The Witcher), Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pirate Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pirates, Probably incorrect nautical terms, Werewolves, Witcher with a capital W, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, because I like the aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29950926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalapert/pseuds/TheMalapert
Summary: Jaskier, the wayward son of a Viscount, manages to get himself kidnapped by pirates twice in one week, but luckily for him, the second set of pirates doesn't seem to be as fearsome as their reputation. Especially considering they're Witchers. Through baths, ballroom dancing, and an undeniable mutual attraction with their Captain, Jaskier thoroughly makes himself part of the crew.Until he isn't.Geralt doesn't know how it happens. There's a werewolf and a baby and a lot of chest hair, and suddenly, Geralt has this warm feeling whenever that infuriating bard opens his mouth. It's not enough, he tells himself. He's got Ciri to worry about, a ship to run, and Jaskier isn't fit to live this life. It's not enough.Until it is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	1. The ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witchers find a bard.

The _White Wolf_ was once called the _RS Maidenhead._ To be honest that was the best thing to happen to Geralt and his brothers since expanding their territory East. The jokes didn’t stop for weeks, months even. Though they were the only ones to hear them, it was the icing on the cake of capturing Rivia’s fastest mail ship. Battleships were all well and good, but they required more hands than the wolves had on deck. Not to mention, with the way they took ships, countless canons just weighed everything down. 

It was the speed that aided them now. They’d finally found the location of the half-assed pirates who dared to poach in their territory. The bastards had attacked a passenger ship carrying families to repopulate the recently hurricane torn Kerack. Blasted a hole right in the ship’s hull, and the survivors barely limped to the nearest port. Twelve dead, two children among them. 

The wolves of Kaer Morhen wouldn’t let that stand. 

They went by many names. The wolves of Kaer Morhen for just their pack. The Golden-Eyed pirates from the poets. Witchers. They’d once been said to attack the monsters of the ocean and keep the peace between the humans and the more unnatural sea dwellers. Those ideas had all gone to legend, and to the average person, the Witchers were inhuman monsters created specifically to hijack the trade routes of [insert their country here]. To be fair, the Witchers did plenty of both. There were only a few ships left in their little fleet. It was more important than ever to keep their territory within the family. 

“I haven’t had a good fight in weeks,” Lambert grunted.

“Don’t know you’ll get it with these poor sods,” Eskel replied. The scrape of Eskel’s whetstone sounded loud against the gentle lap of waves on the hull. They’d docked on the opposite shore, planning to hike through the island and attack at night. 

“How does it feel to be the hand of fate, gentleman?” Coen secured a large waterskin to his back.

“Call me a gentleman again, and you’ll be catchin’ some type of hand,” Lambert growled. 

They laughed, boisterous and loud, and Geralt couldn’t help the twitch of his lips upward. As boys, training under the iron fist of the older Witchers, there was hardly any time for laughter like that. But out on the open ocean with no one but his brothers, Geralt found himself carving laugh lines in the stern planes of his face. 

He hmm-ed at their conversation and jerked his head. As one, they fell out. The cove they’d chosen was well hidden and difficult to navigate into. Occasionally on excursions like this, they would leave someone behind just in case, but everyone was itching to wet their steel. 

It took less time than they’d anticipated to cut through the island. They arrived at the disappointing scene of all their combatants drunk and feasting. 

The young pirates’ encampment was settled under a large overhang. It was obvious they’d taken the area from some natives; doors were carved into the rock that led to several rooms, and sturdy wooden structures flanked the overhang. None of these boys looked like they’d even know how to spell ‘architecture.’ A flat plane of rock stretched out from the tall cave, and this was where most of them were congregated. A long table, stolen from the passenger ship, was piled high with fresh meats and mainland veggies. They ate like rabid dogs, some of them not even bothering to find a chair, just crouching on the table for a better vantage at stealing their meal. 

There were thirty in total. Eighteen swarming around the table, two already passed out in the sand, and ten more wandering the encampment with no other goal than to introduce a bottle of wine to each hut. What surprised the wolves was the young man singing. 

The singer was tied, arms wound in a way that Geralt knew ached around a thick pole behind his head. It made him hunch just a little, arms fighting against the neck. It was a bitch of a binding method, and Geralt’s opinion of these pirates dropped even lower. The bard carted out his jaunty tunes as if performing at a royal court. Every few verses, the pirates would laugh and toss him a scrap of meat, mostly fat and gristle. The singer caught it with his teeth, tossing his head back to send it down the gullet. After a particularly well worded chorus about the lads and their huge _swords_ , one of the pirates tossed him a bruised peach. It knocked the singer in the temple and went to the ground, an eruption of laughter following. 

The singer fell to his knees. He lurched at the fruit, sinking his teeth in for a bite that nearly split the peach in half. Yellowed juices ran from the corners of his mouth, spotting his dirty white chemise. 

Geralt found each of his brother’s eyes, confirming that they knew what to do. He knew they did, but it was ritual. 

They slunk forward and split. Lambert and Coen headed for the opposite end to take them from both sides. Geralt and Eskel waited for their signal, crouched behind a fern that shaded them but allowed an unobstructed view. 

With the peach devoured all but the pit, the bard picked up another tune. Geralt couldn’t help but overhear while listening for Lambert’s call. 

_There once was a lad named Tony_

_A tall skinny thing and boney_

_this boy came and said_

_With a look of the dead_

_My friend, I’m getting quite lonely!_

_I didn’t quite know his conundrum_

_He couldn’t explain, he ho-hummed_

_And then, quite a shock_

_He looked towards his cock_

_And said he needed to get some!_

_Gods bless the queers and the dandies_

_Just down a good grog and a brandy_

_With naught but your hand_

_You may look at a man_

_And find yourself getting randy!_

Geralt huffed under his breath and caught Eskel’s raunchy grin. His eyes snapped back to the singer when the crash of a bottle stopped the song. 

One of the nearby pirates had swung an empty bottle of rum down on the singer’s head, glass erupting everywhere. It took the singer down to his knees, and even far away, Geralt could see the blankness cross his eyes. 

“Sing another about cunts!” The pirate belched. The neck of the bottle slipped from his hands as he turned back to the feast, no longer concerned with the mess. 

The bard swayed, trying to stand again, but he decided better. His bound arms pulsed with every deep, heaving breath. 

“Earn your keep,” another of the swine growled. He threw an apple but missed the bard by a wide margin. Still, the bard flinched on his knees. 

Coen’s bluejay call carried over the din. 

The one who hit the singer died first, his new bottle of rum crashing to the ground. Eskel made quick work of two more nearby. By the time they’d cleared half the banquet, Lambert and Coen emerged, barely bloodied from the carved rooms. It was easy to hack through the rest of them. They hardly put up a fight. It was the runners that were the most hassle. 

A pirate broke from the fray and made for the treeline. Eskel took him down with a clean throw of one of his knives. 

Lambert dragged one of them out of a fern and beheaded him. 

All in all, fifteen minutes tops. 

“Seven,” Eskel said. 

“Eight.” Lambert gave Eskel a taunting view of his tongue and wiped his sword on one of the dead bodies. 

“Five,” Coen admitted. 

Geralt set his sword on the table and walked towards where the bard stared at them, owl-eyed. 

“Oh, Goody Geralt? Count up,” Lambert said, snapping his fingers for Geralt’s attention. 

“You do the math,” Geralt snapped. 

The bard stood on shaking knees, and standing face to face, they were almost the same height. 

After a calculating few moments, Lambert grumbled, “That’s the teacher’s pet for you. Always gotta win.”

“That’s Captain Teacher’s Pet to you,” Geralt said, not taking his eyes off the bard. 

“Blow me.” 

Lambert, Coen, and Eskel drew up behind Geralt. This bound bard was no threat, but it was instinct. 

“To whom do I owe my, ah—“ The singer looked around at the sliced bodies. “Gracious and timely rescue?”

“Not a rescue. Not here for you,” Geralt replied. His eyes raked over the singer. It was a strong body fed too little. The singer was older than Geralt had originally thought, even if his youthful face wanted you to believe otherwise. 

Geralt slid a dagger off his belt and cut the bonds. At the sight of steel, the bard didn’t even flinch. Weird. 

“I’ll thank you anyways, gentlemen, and subscribe you my heroes.” As soon as the blood returned to his fingers, the singer fell upon the feast with gusto. He tore into a chicken leg and stuffed a whole roll in after it. 

Geralt’s hand twitched, a signal, and they started looting the bodies for anything worthwhile. 

“I would normally abstain from eating so, but I feel under the circumstances, I needn’t worry about disrespecting the dead,” the singer chattered. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. May I know the names of my heroes?”

Geralt grunted, but no one otherwise paid him any mind. 

“Alright then, I suppose anonymous is hard to rhyme with, but I can give it a go.” Jaskier had slowed his eating, feeling almost overstuffed after several days of nothing. His fingers drummed on the table, and Geralt’s mouth twitched into a sneer. Did this guy _always_ have to be making noise? Couldn’t they ransack corpses in peace?

They found pockets stuffed with different denominations of coin. Obviously not the uniform gold pieces of a merchant ship; these came from family purses. The weapons were poorly made and not worth the effort. By the time they came back together, the bard had apparently finished with his brief verbal pause. 

“As captive, I, did ne’er suspect,

four saviors come to correct

my dire circumstances.

The pirates drank their celebration

giving in to night’s temptation,

none ever had their chances.”

Jaskier sighed and rolled a grape between his fingers. 

With a frown, he said, “It’s a bit shit, isn’t it?”

Lambert was the only one who gave answer: raised eyebrows and a quick shrug. 

“Well, I’ll work it out.” Jaskier hovered closer as they set out their spoils. 

Eskel rolled his eyes. “Really?” 

The youngest of them hadn’t shown a lot of coin, but he’d stacked six boxes of rum on the table. 

“Gotta remember the important stuff,” Lambert replied. 

“Alright, time to draw straws.” Eskel pulled a pouch from his belt and presented them with it. They each dove in, picking out a smooth stone. The four stones were identical to the touch, but once presented—

“Fuck,” Lambert seethed, shoving his white stone back into Eskel’s hands. The three with black stones laughed at his misfortunes as they put them back in the bag. 

“See you in a few hours,” Geralt taunted. He pulled out one of the bottles of rum, the glass clinking, and waved with it as Lambert stalked back into the trees. 

In the island quiet that followed, Geralt was incredibly aware of how hard this ‘Jaskier’ was working to not talk. 

“So,” Jaskier began, the word positively bursting out of him. “I suppose this is the part where I fawn upon my big strong saviors and thank you in any way I can?” His hands twisted in front of his hips, a practiced move, and his eyelashes fluttered. 

Eskel and Coen laughed in his face. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. Great. A talker _and_ a flirter. 

“Good thing Lambert drew short, kid, or he’d take you up on that,” Coen chuckled, landing a pat on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I—“

“If you really want to be of use, cart these boxes down to the shore,” Geralt said, waving the bottle at the general mess on the table. He took his leave, wandering with no particular haste down to the moonlit beach. 

Eskel lifted one of the boxes and set it back down with a huff. 

“Ooh,” he flinched. “That’s heavy… Better get started, little lark.” He winked. 

He and Coen followed Geralt’s lead. 

“Stupid big muscley pirates. ‘M not a _lark_ ,'' Jaskier muttered. 

“We heard that!” Coen called back, making Jaskier flush. 

It wasn’t his fault; he was just so incorrigible! When beefy angels swept in to free him from the sea’s worst pirates, what was he supposed to do? Cower like some highborn tart? He’d _never_ seen biceps like that, and he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to lay a god. Except for the fact that none of said gods seemed interested. Well, he’d show them. 

Shit, the boxes were heavy. He had no doubt they were feather light for those bastards down at the beach, but he hadn’t been regularly fed in two days. He was once a strong healthy lad, but his arms ached from being bound, and his stomach felt too small for all the food he’d eaten. Still, he hoisted one up and started the trek to the sand. He only fell once.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Jaskier huffed as he stumbled to put the first one down. All three Witchers were lounging in the dunes, passing the rum back and forth.

“Let’s see,” Geralt grunted. “I’ve got rum, free labor, and my territory is clean again.” He toasted the bottle to Jaskier and took a swig.

“Work that one out. Don’t strain yourself too hard,” Eskel said, and Jaskier sneered.

“I suppose the deceased were young entrepreneurs looking to... encroach upon your business?” A wave of vertigo hit Jaskier, and he landed solidly on his ass. “It is quite essential to curtail competition. Maintain the monopoly.”

“And I guess we saved your ass,” Coen said, shrugging.

“It is a very nice ass, though tragically it seems no one would like to take advantage of my unfortunate circumstances…” Jaskier drew a circle with his foot and laid his head on his knees.

“We don’t take advantage.” The sentence sliced through whatever joviality was in the air. 

Jaskier cleared his throat.

“Then I suppose the rest of the rumors are likewise untrue,” Jaskier said softly. He fiddled with the torn hem of his trousers. “Can’t believe everything you hear.”

The Witchers didn’t answer, but Jaskier had enough words for all of them.

“That’s why I plan on immortalizing your heroic actions in verse. Despite your lack of taste, I am still eternally grateful for rescuing me from those—“

“Fuck the rumors, but if you start singing, I _will_ break your neck,” Geralt said.

Jaskier hummed a test verse, and the nearly empty bottle sailed clear over his head.

“Get back to being useful.” Geralt’s eyes glowed sharply in the starlight, and Jaskier tried to match him glare for glare. Geralt was simply beautiful, and Jaskier didn’t make a habit of scowling at beautiful things. Staying with these pirates for very much longer might make him reconsider.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Jaskier snarked, heaving himself back up. 

“That’s the spirit,” Coen chuckled. He went for what would usually be a back slap, but his tipsy slump on the ground made it more of a thigh slap.

Jaskier managed to lug all the boxes to the beach, and he settled in for a proud moment of relaxation. He thought he heard a light snore coming from one of the three dark lumps next to him. Jaskier managed exactly twenty nine deep, meditative breaths before he saw the tip of a ship sail into view. It was magnificent.

Bathed in moonlight, the small graywood ship slithered around a turn in the cove. It glided as if unaffected by the sea, and leading it was not the usual slightly baudy figurehead. The wood had been sliced into the shape of a snarling wolf, teeth bared, and uncut rubies glowed like bloody eyes that pierced Jaskier’s lungs.

“ _Sweet Melitele_ ,” he whispered, rising to his feet to greet the incoming vessel. 

Geralt smirked, a small thing at the corner of his mouth. He did have a very nice ship.

Lambert dropped anchor as close as he dared and lowered a dingy for the rest of the travel. When he ran aground, the other three were hoisting two boxes of rum apiece. Jaskier was too awestruck to sneer, still staring out at the ghostly picture of the _White Wolf._

“Took you long enough,” Eskel grumbled, and he passed Lambert his spoils.

“It was a very nice walk. Thought I’d enjoy it.” Lambert stacked the boxes in the base of the dingy. Coin purses jingling and dozens of rum bottles to show for their efforts, the four Witchers settled their bulk into the small dingy. Jaskier tried not to laugh at the picture as he slung his leg into the boat.

A hand caught his ankle and shoved him back; Jaskier stumbled in the lapping shallows.

“You aren’t actually going to leave me here,” Jaskier said, looking between the unconcerned gazes of his so-called saviors.

“A ship will be round eventually, I’d bet. You can compose in the meantime.” Geralt’s grin looked almost sharp, _wolflike_. Jaskier’s eyes flicked to the snarling figurehead and back to Geralt.

“My family will pay a healthy ransom for my safe return,” he said finally. His fingers skittered over the boat’s edge as Geralt considered the proposal. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at his brothers, but they each wordlessly agreed it was easy coin. Geralt’s frown settled, resigned to the fact that he wasn’t getting any peace for a while. He nodded to the side, and Eskel stuck out a hand for the bard to grasp. Jaskier took it eagerly and hoisted himself into the dingy.

“Consider yourself captured,” Lambert said. He barked out a laugh when Jaskier’s cheeks flushed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun coming up with that sea shanty. There should be more explicitly gay sea shanties.


	2. The ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes himself at home.

“You’re kidding,” Jaskier said flatly. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“There’s just the four of us,” Coen shrugged. 

Jaskier spun slowly about the deck, watching them work quickly to set sail. He supposed it wasn’t a big ship per se, and they darted around with single-minded focus like four wheels of the same cart. When they got out of the bay, Jaskier really got to see them work. Shoulders relaxed, feet became unhurried. Eskel laid out a map and squinted at it in the low light. Geralt took his place at the wheel. Lambert and Coen manned the rigging, though there wasn’t much to do after getting underway. 

“Where to, Geralt?” 

“Take us to the rumor mill, and then set course for home. Yen’s gunna flay me alive for being gone so long as it is.” Geralt mumbled the last part, but it was still loud enough for Jaskier to catch. 

“So that makes sense to you all?” Of course, he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Right, of course, it’s some pirate-y language. Speaking in codes and whatnot.”

“Quiet, captive,” Lambert joked and flicked Jaskier’s ear as he passed by.

“I have a name you could use,” he said back, and Eskel caught the bard’s glare. He cocked his head.

“Marquis? Son of the governor?” He guessed. 

Jaskier puffed up and replied, “Future Viscount of Lettenhove.”

“So what’s a future Viscount doing on a settler ship to upper Kerack?” 

The other Witchers paused their tasks to pay attention, and any attention was fine by Jaskier.

“Ran away from home. I was going to be a travelling performer until the ship was attacked, and…” Jaskier brightened. “I guess you could say I’ve both travelled and performed.”

“Bit positive spin on getting captured twice in one week, huh?” Coen said. He’d drifted closer as Jaskier spoke.

“Well, one has to find life’s blessings where they fall. I certainly can’t see anything wrong with being at the mercy of four such handsome sailors.” 

There he was at it again. If the bard didn’t stop teasing, Geralt really was going to lock him up like a prisoner. He’d met plenty of poor bastards on the sea that had no sense of self preservation. Whether that meant taunting a Witcher or sailing headfirst into a storm, Geralt was able to accept that some men didn’t see the clear danger signs of life. He’d already accepted this about the bard. But very few laid with a Witcher on purpose. With enough coin and adequate wine, they could get the whores to grin and bear it. Some of them even warmed up to the sight of golden eyes in their beds, provided the golden coins showed up first. 

The ship had gone into a deadly silence like fog hovering in the lungs. Jaskier sensed the change from the beach, and he plowed right through the awkwardness. 

“Really, I wouldn’t mind knowing your names. Epic ballads are much easier to compose with tangible subjects. Not to mention, one can only evoke the gods and say  _ fuck  _ so many times during sex before wishing to spice it up with a real proper name.” Jaskier found himself leaning over the railing of the upper deck. The bard was just oh so close to Geralt’s flexing hands. 

Geralt bared his teeth at Jaskier’s back in an effort not to strangle the man. 

Eskel offered his name first. 

“And what a lovely name for a lovely hero,” Jaskier crooned. Geralt didn’t miss the way Eskel’s fingertips mussed the map’s edges. At least he wasn’t the only one bothered by the bard’s carefree words. 

“I’m Coen.” 

Geralt saw the barest of flinches when Jaskier turned his excited gaze onto the Griffin. Coen’s hesitance was for nothing as Jaskier’s face broke into an even bigger grin. 

“Now, I think I can do some good things with a name like that.” He hadn’t even said it flirtatiously, to Geralt’s fury; the bard was just  _ like that!  _

Jaskier turned expectantly to their youngest Witcher who sneered starts the attention. 

“I’m none of your busi—“

“That’s Lambert,” Eskel cut in with a smirk. If Lambert wasn’t in the middle of tying off a line, Geralt was sure they’d have a wrestling match on their hands. 

He tensed when Jaskier turned on him. Geralt blew the sudden breath out his nose, trying to dispel it, but the feeling of being  _ watched  _ lingered. 

And certainly, Jaskier was watching. The bard leaned on the railing behind him, the picture of ease. If Geralt had human eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see the way Jaskier’s canine slipped out to nibble on his lip. 

“You,” Jaskier said, and everyone knew better than to offer something of Geralt’s—even something as small as his name. “They called you Geralt.”

_ Fuck.  _ His eyes narrowed past the bard’s shoulder where Lambert was focusing heavily on the rope. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier continued, recognition slowly dawning. 

His head fell slightly to the side, a look of childish openness falling like a theater background. 

“You’re the Butcher of Blaviken!”

Just fucking great. 

The old moniker made his teeth grind, and he leveled the bard with a sucked-in smile. 

“Come here,” he said quietly, beckoning the idiot forward. Jaskier came without hesitation, face still lit up like a fucking full moon. 

Geralt landed a solid punch to the bard’s stomach. 

Jaskier doubled over, letting out a satisfying grunt. Geralt turned back to his wheel. His job was done, and his limbs now felt loose. Relaxed. Punching the bard was perhaps the most satisfying thing all night. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier choked. He dashed to the ship’s edge and promptly threw up. Thankfully, into the sea. 

The churning in his stomach had only been barely contained before. With the punch and the added bonus of being a land-farer on a ship, Jaskier vomited the only meal he’d had in days. He tasted a mockery of roast pork mingled with bile and there on the end— _ ugh,  _ a sickeningly sweet peach taste. 

Geralt felt only mildly guilty. 

Jaskier was surprised at the sleeping situation. He supposed fewer crew meant better accommodations, but he hadn’t expected each Witcher to have their own little cabin. And of course, Geralt’s was largest as he was the Captain. That all left the question: where was sweet Jaskier to sleep?

“C’mon, let him bunk down with me,” Lambert said with a smirk. “I could keep him out of trouble.”

“Ooh, somehow I doubt that,” Jaskier replied. He even had the audacity to wink. 

Geralt knew they’d only condemn themselves to days of yowling if they treated the bard like a real prisoner and sent him to the hole. He made a decision—it was his job after all. 

“He’ll sleep with me tonight.” 

He hadn’t expected Jaskier to grin like a cat and slink over to him, a swagger in his hips. 

“Sorry boys,” he crooned to the others. “Captain goes first.” Jaskier laid a hand on the front of Geralt’s shoulder like a harlot in those stupid romance paintings, and Geralt snarled, grabbing the bard’s wrist. 

“Would you shut up?” He grit and turned without looking at any of his pack. Jaskier followed, jerked along by his wrist. 

Geralt slammed the door to his quarters. With practiced fingers, he lit a match and brought an oil lamp to life, hand returning to bruise Jaskier’s wrist. 

Jaskier took in every little scrap of personality he could see. From the many bright bandanas to the well-loved Gwent deck on the table, he only got a cursory glance before Geralt tossed him to the bed. 

“Am I to be tied at your mercy? A helpless bard in your bed?” Jaskier leisurely stretched out as if it was  _ his  _ bed, spreading his knees to make an unfairly enticing picture. 

Geralt growled, “You’ll be sleeping in the waves if you won’t  _ be quiet _ .”

“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. Say, do you have some extra clothes I could borrow? These were  _ not _ meant to be worn this long, and you do not want to know what those other pirates did.” Jaskier shivered dramatically. 

“Get used to some dirt,” Geralt said. Really, this musician might be more trouble than his worth. How much did a Viscount fetch anyways?

“I guess nudity is my only option—“ He already had his shirt over his head. “—but you’re a man of the sea. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

When he turned from shucking off his boots, Geralt was faced with a broad, hairy,  _ attractive  _ chest and the view of Jaskier unlacing his trousers. Before they completely dropped, Geralt chucked an extra pair of his, aiming for where he knew there was bruising from his punch. Jaskier caught them with a smirk. 

“My hero.” 

Geralt turned again to give his eyes some privacy. This bastard was just undressing in  _ his  _ room without a care in the world for propriety or the fact that Geralt could easily gut him where he stood! Rude. Geralt sighed and started his nightly routine. He poured a little water into a bowl atop his desk and dipped a small cloth in it. He wiped his hands, over his neck and face, and then shoved it down his pants to get the sweatier southern bits. 

“Could I have a turn with that?” Jaskier was done changing, and he couldn’t have picked a worse time to speak up than when Geralt was practically  _ gripping  _ his own  _ dick _ . 

With a cruel smile, Geralt pulled the rag from his trousers and threw it at the bard’s face. Jaskier caught it, a blush coming to his cheeks with full force. Jaskier swiped it over his nape and under both arms before dropping it to the floor like it was offensive. 

“Rich slob,” Geralt muttered and picked up the rag. He tossed it in with the laundry. 

“Brute,” Jaskier replied, but it didn’t hold the usual bite. He couldn’t even insult a Witcher properly. Geralt wouldn’t call himself amazed, he wouldn’t. He would call it more… astounded. Baffled. 

“Lay on your side.”

Blessedly, Jaskier did as he was told. His big blue eyes waited for the next order, and Geralt decided this was worse than the words. Jaskier’s gaze flicked once from Geralt’s face to his crotch, now at eye level. Geralt sensed more than saw the way Jaskier bit the inside of his lip. The Witcher shook it from his mind and crawled into bed behind the bard. 

“If you move in the night, I’ll snap your neck,” Geralt said without a hint of sympathy. He pushed a hand under Jaskier’s torso and took the crossed arm’s wrist. His other hand went on Jaskier’s throat. The bard wasn’t going anywhere without Geralt knowing about it. 

Though it was an unfortunately intimate position. 

Jaskier didn’t comment, finally out of words, but Geralt could feel him swallow heavily. The Witcher waited for the acrid stench of fear sweat. It was hard to scent just how the bard was feeling; Jaskier had been a prisoner after all. For the good of the pack, Jaskier would need to bathe soon. If Geralt just got a little closer—he shifted like he was settling in, just barely coming closer to the bard. One stretch forward would have Geralt burying his nose in the graceful curve of Jaskier’s neck, but Geralt tried not to think about it. 

He waited for the fear, but something else bloomed instead. Something tangy. Slowly, Jaskier relaxed into the embrace, and the scent only grew. 

It was lust. 

Geralt blinked as if he’d just stared into the sun. Maybe this bard could back up his words after all. 

Geralt tried not to enjoy it too much. He had a reputation to uphold. 

…

Geralt awoke to the slightest tustle of Jaskier in his arms. He tensed, blearily thinking that Jaskier was trying to escape, but then he felt the bard close the distance between their bodies. Snuggle in. Half-asleep, he accepted the body heat and the nice press of Jaskier’s ass. He nosed into Jaskier’s hair, getting comfortable with the new position. He almost fell back asleep when he heard it. 

Scratching. 

Claws digging into the side of the hull. 

He was awake in an instant, untangling himself from Jaskier. He went on quiet feet to his swords, picking out the iron one. Drowners didn’t need anything special. It had been a long time since they’d dealt with drowners. 

Geralt eased open his door and peered out onto the deck. Across the way, he saw two golden eyes flash in the moonlight and knew someone else had heard it too. A set of black claws curled over the railing. 

Drowners were damn ugly. Warped bodies of humans from shipwrecks, their skin was oddly blackened, as if burnt, but sagged and  _ smelled  _ like a fishery on a summer afternoon. Bones stuck out from their once-fingers, and clawing at passing ships, uprooting coral, had shaved them into needlepoint weapons. If they had a lower jaw, the teeth were similarly sharp. 

The first one spilled clumsily onto the deck. They weren’t graceful, but they were strong. Most humans died underestimating the force of their blows. For a Witcher, though, drowners were mostly a nuisance. 

When it seemed the whole school had come aboard, Geralt threw open his door. Eskel emerged from the other, and together, they flanked the ugly shits. Geralt roared with the first thrust, completely slicing a drowner in half and launching its torso back overboard. The rest of them made a gurgling shriek and split to rush the Witchers. Hacking through them was like swatting stubborn flies, and Geralt’s heart had hardly even picked up until two syllables stopped him cold. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier stood, wide eyed, in the doorway. 

A drowner took interest. Geralt launched his sword like a javelin, spearing the drowner to his quarters’ wall. Jaskier jerked back from the wretched, twisted body, stumbling away from the safety of shutting Geralt’s door. Geralt pushed the last of them back with  _ aard _ and sprinted for his sword. He watched one of Eskel’s drowners turn to the much easier target bumping against the ship’s rails. Eskel was too engaged, three making an unusually coordinated attack. Their eyes met, and he trusted Geralt to take care of it. 

In two long strides, Geralt was wrenching his sword from the wall. He slid into the drowner‘s path, slicing it from navel to nose. 

“Hey!” Before Geralt could turn to take care of the rest, Jaskier had a dingy’s oar in hand. 

He swung, and his shoulders popped with the force of the blow. The drowner’s head was taken clean off. 

Geralt shoved the crazy bard behind him and took the rest out before Jaskier could endanger himself further. The deck once again went quiet. 

“Wow,” Jaskier breathed, though it sounded like a pistol firing. 

“Idiot, what were you thinking!” When Geralt spun to shout at the bard, he realized just how close they were. How Jaskier was staring him boldly in the eyes, something bright and foreign buzzing on his skin. 

“That’s no way to thank me, Geralt. I did just save your life,” Jaskier said. He cocked out his hip, the rest of his body following, and swayed back to Geralt’s door. His nose wrinkled as he paused at the frame. “And you better take that shirt off before you come back to bed.”

He disappeared into the dark. 

Geralt growled; that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to yell, and the bard would cower and might even apologize for being such a little shit. He ignored the heat creeping its way over his cheeks and stalked towards his quarters. He didn’t look back at Eskel’s taunting look, didn’t need to—he could feel it pestering the back of his head. He grabbed the edge of the door and slammed it. 

“Oh, do you have to be so cantankerous?” 

The dark was all consuming, but Geralt could hear the way Jaskier brushed his fingers on the bedsheets. He chose to ignore the comment and get back to sleep as fast as possible. He nudged the bard over with his knee, about to roll into bed, when Jaskier’s hands pressed to either side of his hips. 

“I  _ know _ you heard me say take that filthy shirt off,” Jaskier huffed. 

Well, he was right. There were a few splatters of drowner blood, some scattered viscera. It would be more comfortable to take it off, not that he usually cared. Geralt shifted back, fabric rustling as he disrobed. 

“Happy?” Geralt made sure to dig an elbow into Jaskier’s stomach as he climbed over. The bard’s hands were slippery, appearing and stroking then gone somewhere else. Geralt wasn’t ticklish, but it made him jump when he felt fingers against his ribs. 

“Quite,” Jaskier said smugly. When Geralt settled the threatening hand over the bard’s throat, bastard that he was, he had the audacity to snuggle back into Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt fell asleep before he realized he never took Jaskier’s wrist again. 

…

Jaskier woke alone in the heavy light of late morning. A plate of hard bread and cheese was on the table for him. The crumbs suggested Geralt left it out of his own breakfast. 

_ What a prince,  _ Jaskier thought, chewing warily on the bread. He wasn’t eager to repeat last night’s gluttony and subsequent puking episode. He ate slowly, deliberately, and he pondered his situation. Because, well, he had no intention of being ransomed back to his parents. He’d run away for a reason, and he didn’t think he could pull that particular disappearing act again. 

How long would it take to contact his parents? Then, how long would it take to get him back to Lettenhove? They had to have better things to do in between. A week here, a month there. No one had been able to resist the Jaskier charm, provided adequate time was given. He could see himself as a pirate. Especially here, among these mysterious and handsome men. There were countless stories here. Jaskier was sure he could dig for a lifetime and not find every juicy detail about the wolves of Kaer Morhen. Besides, it seemed they had a wretched image problem. Already, the so-called hellborn mutants had treated him better than the pathetic humans who’d captured him first, even if everything he said grated on their nerves. Honestly, who didn’t like being flirted with?

Then there were the creatures. Jaskier knew that once upon a time, Witchers were supposed to be monster hunters, but as the monsters died out, they turned to piracy. It seemed there was also more there than met the eye because Jaskier certainly could attest to the existence of monsters. 

Jaskier stretched, finding his arms and shoulders particularly pained. Nothing cramped a muscle like being tied and forced to dance. He went through several stretches as he scanned Geralt’s room. A short pile of clothes adorned the foot of the bed. A candle had been melted onto the far bedpost, and on the table, an oil lamp sat dark. Bandanas and strips of cloth were stuffed in every available place; Jaskier recalled a darker colored something tying back Geralt’s hair the night before. Typically, the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but he wondered if he could get to Geralt’s through his hair. It wasn’t like any of the Witchers kept themselves well. Jaskier had seen his fair share of dry knuckles and split ends, but none in such high concentration as aboard the  _ White Wolf. _

Done with his stretches, Jaskier made towards the sounds of life out on the deck. Grunting and heavy boots on wood, maybe they were sparring? Maybe they were sparring shirtless.

Jaskier reached the door with a sly grin, but when he pushed on the handle, it wouldn’t budge. He searched for a lock of some kind, but the Captain’s quarters didn’t have a lock. He peeked through the cracks of the door, seeing shadows dance on the deck. Halfway down, he spotted a dark bar. 

“You bastards, let me out of here!” He pounded hard on the door.

“Can’t have you wandering about the ship. You might fall off,” Eskel replied.

“You’ll regret leaving me bored!” Jaskier promised. 

“I’d regret seeing your face even more,” Lambert called, and Jaskier grit his teeth. 

He started off with the most annoying songs he knew.  _ 99 Bottles _ , the Redanian national anthem (all seventeen verses), but the morning passed, and no one had come to throttle him yet. These Witchers either had patience enough to fill an ocean or were tragically hard of hearing, and he  _ knew _ it wasn’t the second. Jaskier reached deep in his repertoire for something truly atrocious. Then the door opened. 

He was up in an instant and at the door the next. Coen slid in as if protecting the opening from an unruly cat, a small bundle in his hand. The door thunked closed, and Jaskier advanced, Coen pressing himself back. 

“Lunch,” Coen said, holding up the bundle. Jaskier took it, dropped it on the table, and returned right into Coen’s space. The Witcher drew up, stomach flattening as if afraid Jaskier would reach out. 

“Coen, why won’t you let me out?” Jaskier fluttered his eyelashes.

“Uh, Captain’s orders,” Coen replied, inching to the side in a bid to escape. Jaskier followed and traced a finger up the front of Coen’s billowy shirt. 

“But I’m so lonely,” he pouted. Coen reached behind himself for the doorhandle, and he opened the door, slipping into the crack. Jaskier pinned Coen’s shin to the doorframe with his leg, glaring at the Witcher. “Are you at least enjoying my singing? I can go ever louder.”

“It’s great,” Coen said and then slipped passed Jaskier, slamming the door. 

“Fuck.” Jaskier chewed on his lunch of—big surprise—bread and cheese as he thought of a fitting revenge. 

Coen caught his breath outside, replacing the makeshift lock only when he’d truly felt calm again. Eskel and Lambert were going through forms, and Geralt was on the fighting top, meditating. He’d drawn the short straw to give their prisoner, guest, whatever an adequate lunch. 

“Are we sure he’s not a succubus or something?” Coen asked, headed to their food stores for a quick drink. 

“Definitely not,” Eskel said.

“Well, you’ve only fucked the one,” Lambert reasoned. “You think the boy ones could be different?”

The handle of a dagger thunked off Lambert’s thick skull, and he quickly glared up at the fighting top. Lambert moved to the side, no longer in bird-dropping range of Geralt, and he stole the dagger for good measure. 

“I’m just saying if he’s human, he’s got to be addled or something.” Lambert tucked the dagger away and went back to holding his form. 

“He smells human,” Geralt said, not even opening his eyes from his meditation.

“Oh I bet he does—“

Lambert’s comment was cut off by the ungodly shriek of Jaskier. It sounded like a banshee had gotten loose in Geralt’s cabin, and all four of them were at the door before they even thought about it. Geralt tore the board from where it barricaded his door; they rushed in, daggers drawn.

Jaskier was sitting cross legged on the bed, idly playing with the bedsheets. 

Geralt made a scan of his room, body loosening every second he couldn’t find a threat. Except the bard’s grin. That made his blood boil, and his lips curled back over his teeth, letting out a growl. 

“What the fuck was that?” Lambert finally asked, and Jaskier flopped onto his stomach.

“I just wanted to see if I could get you in here,” Jaskier said.

“I’m gunna strangle him,” Lambert muttered, but Coen held him back by a firm hand to the shoulder. 

“I bet you’ll be able to buy that Toussant wine that you like with your cut of his ransom.” 

Jaskier frowned at the mention of his return home and dropped his head to the bed.

“Fine, I’ll only strangle him a little,” Lambert said, but he didn’t move to act. 

Jaskier wrinkled his nose and replied haughtily, “I only like to be choked during sex.”

Geralt rolled his eyes as a flush creeped up Lambert’s neck. It was part anger part horniness, but nothing good would come from it. 

“Get back to your training,” he ordered and left to return to his meditation. Coen made sure to re-barricade the door on his way out. 

Jaskier only had to endure another half hour of seeping boredom before the door swung open. No one stepped in, and Jaskier crept towards the door, almost waiting for it to slam in his face. He wouldn’t put it past Lambert. But when he made it out into the sunshine, he threw his arms out, breathing in the salt heavy air. 

“I thought I’d never again see the sun,” he lamented, and Eskel appeared behind him, gently shoving his shoulder towards a washtub that had appeared.

“You’ll have to hoist up your own water,” Eskel said, showing Jaskier a contraption that reminded him of a well. A thin rope wrapped around a levered spool and at the end, a bucket. “Usually takes ten or so to get enough to bathe.”

Jaskier definitely noticed how none of the Witchers looked at his bare chest. Or at least, the glances were quick and followed by deliberately not looking at his face. 

“You’re a true gentleman, Eskel, and should you desire any help bathing in the future,” Jaskier smirked. “Please don’t hesitate to ask. It’s the least I could do to.”

Eskel replied with a noncommittal  _ hmm _ and quickly retreated.

Jaskier would flirt with them until they believed it or until he died, whichever came first.

He set to work hauling up water. It wasn’t as grueling as he thought it would be, but after a few buckets, his shoulders began to burn. He took a break, low bathwater sloshing with the ship, and he watched the Witchers work. 

Eskel and Coen were having some sort of duel, lunging and hitting each other with the flats of their swords. Lambert was polishing his sword, though he was much more interested in the fight before him. Jaskier couldn’t see Geralt but assumed he was off somewhere doing something very rational and broody. Jaskier started hoisting buckets again, cresting ten and then some. Ten buckets was hardly enough to wet his balls, and he needed to talk to these Witchers about the concept of luxury. They stole precious jewels and were up to their ears in gold, but still, they took no pleasure in life’s little luxuries. Like being fully submerged in bath water. 

By the time he’d hauled up enough to really have a good bath, Eskel won his bout against Coen and was deep into winning against Lambert. 

Jaskier didn’t miss the way they both stumbled in their practiced steps when he dropped his pants. Well, Geralt’s pants. They were a hair short. Even though they were about the same height, Geralt had more torso where Jaskier had more leg. He’d been complemented all his life on his wonderful legs, and he took ample opportunity to show them off while getting into the tub. When he let out a decadent sigh, Lambert cursed, having accidentally sliced Eskel with the edge of his blade. Despite their insistence at ignoring his come-ons, the Witchers were very aware of how much they wanted to look at Jaskier. 

Jaskier settled in to soak for a while, leaning his head back to warm his face in the sun. It was one of those blessed days—not too hot and not too cold. Just right to strip and sunbathe. 

Lambert whistled.

Jaskier opened one eye, glancing at the Witcher. Lambert was pinned to the ground by Eskel’s foot, and Eskel was also staring, a little more ashamed then Lambert.

“Only dogs get whistled at,” Jaskier said, closing his eyes again to relax.

“Oh come on, lark, don’t like it now that I’ve got you naked?” There were layers to the question. Flirtatiousness of course, but then a spark of irritation. Insecurity.

“Whether or not I’m naked has nothing to do with you, I assure,” Jaskier replied without even looking. 

Lambert grumbled something under his breath and shoved Eskel’s foot off. He returned to his earlier seat, taking a long pull from one of their waterskins. Coen had disappeared, was likely looking into their dinner options, and Eskel waited patiently for the water. 

“I don’t get him,” Lambert growled lowly. “Tried to mount you on the fucking deck, but he’s suddenly an ice princess for me?”

Eskel’s cheeks bulged as he drank, and he shrugged. 

“Maybe he finally realized how ugly you are in the daylight.” Eskel smiled with teeth, scars pulling down one side into a frown. 

“Maybe it’s because you called him ugly, idiot,” Geralt said from his place up top. The conversational volume was plenty loud for the other Witchers to hear but much quieter than the bard would be able to catch. 

Lambert’s eyebrows furrowed as he recalled goading Jaskier earlier that morning. 

“Sensitive little shit,” he mumbled, but there was no venom to it.

Jaskier finally had to admit defeat when his hands and feet looked more like a topographical map than human skin. He sighed and rose out of the tub. No doubt they were going to shove him back into his prison cell now that he had no excuse to be on deck. Well, it wasn’t as if they’d given him a towel or linen to dry off with. Jaskier stretched out on the floor next to the tub. He heard footsteps approach, and he held u p a finger.

“I’m drying,” he said. The footsteps slowly retreated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Baths as a Plot Device" should be a tag for this fandom.


	3. The ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life aboard the White Wolf.

The next couple days passed similarly to the first. Pirating was a lot less swashbuckling and a lot more waiting around than Jaskier had originally thought. Luckily for everyone involved, he wasn’t totally without entertainment. On the second morning, Coen snuck in and gave him a book to read. A _smut_ novel, and not even one aimed at men. Jaskier giggled his way through the first half but was so engrossed by lunchtime, he didn’t even attempt an escape. On the third day, they let him on deck on the condition that he did their laundry. While he didn’t like being reduced to laundress, he jumped at the chance to get out of Geralt’s room. Then he was rewarded with the surprising fact that the Witchers could _not_ keep their eyes off his arms while kneading the wet fabrics. Geralt was doing the best numbers wise, glancing over the least, but he always ended up staring the longest.

That second night, Geralt hesitated getting into bed. 

“We have shackles if you’d prefer that to…” Geralt flexed his fingers, and Jaskier’s eyes slitted open from where he’d been dozing. 

“And miss your lovely hands on me? I think not.”

When Geralt’s hand slid over his throat that night, it was gentle. Jaskier could even imagine it was a caress. 

At night, they gave Jaskier a portion of whatever was for dinner, but they still forced him to stay in the room. Jaskier sat next to the door, ear pressed to the wood, to catch their conversations. To eat dinner, the Witchers sat out on makeshift chairs and bags of grain and just… talked. Like regular men. They boasted about killing monsters, fucking people, and their lifetime haul. Rarely, they talked about their home—Kaer Morhen. Jaskier caught that there was another Witcher who stayed mostly at home, Vesemir. And as often happened to eavesdroppers, Jaskier heard something he didn’t want to. 

The Yennefer woman, a mage he gathered. The others teased Geralt about her and their child, talked lovingly about their little cub trying hard to learn everything. Something inside Jaskier went cold, and for the first time since coming on the _White Wolf_ , he was well and truly embarrassed. His mother always called him a whore and a homewrecker, but he didn’t _want_ to live up to those titles. Something about it just made Jaskier like Geralt even more. He realized now why Geralt was so prickly about the flirting—he had a mage at home who would probably burn off his eyebrows if he laid with Jaskier. Not to mention what she’d do to Jaskier. 

Geralt was tired that night. He’d spent the day patching up one of the spare sails, and Jaskier got the impression that though the task wasn’t strenuous, it required hours of good focus. It was the first night Geralt was in bed before Jaskier, and his brow twitched when he realized this. He couldn’t parse what he smelled on Jaskier. It wasn’t fear, but it was something close.

“I think I’d prefer the shackles tonight, if it’s all the same to you.” Jaskier fidgeted with his chemise, not meeting Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt’s heart dropped. Why did it feel like he’d been punched in the chest? He knew this would happen eventually. He just wondered what made the bard wise up. His mouth twisted into something like a smile.

“Lambert finally chase you off?” Geralt rose from the bed.

“No,” Jaskier said, a breath of confusion across his face. “It’s just that, well, I may sleep with a lot of married people, but they all come willingly. I would never want to continue something that makes you uncomfortable.”

 _Jaskier slept with a lot of people?_ Logically, Geralt knew that someone who acted like such a slut around Witchers proabably pulled a lot amongst the humans, but he didn’t like it being confirmed like that.

Instead, he said, “I’m not married.” The idea was ridiculous. The closest he’d ever come was probably Yen, and the idea of her getting married was downright laughable. She loved Ciri like the girl was the moon and stars, and no one would come close to that. Not that he and Yen didn’t love each other; gods, he couldn’t imagine his life without her. She fit into his heart right next to his brothers. They talked, they insulted, only occasionally did they sleep together anymore. As Ciri got older, she gave more… looks. It was a skill he was sure she got from her grandmother. The looks were chilling. 

“Well, marriage is a complicated institution, of course, but I may have been listening in on your conversation tonight. It’s not like I have anything else to do, you know, and I heard about your family, Geralt, which is really quite sweet. I can’t believe you didn’t mention you had a daughter, _adorable—“_

Geralt snorted out a laugh. “You’re worried about Yennefer?”

“Yes, the beautiful mage,” Jaskier huffed. He was sure if he had magic, he’d be quite stunning as well. 

“Yennefer isn’t—well, Yen is,” Geralt trailed off trying to find the word. His face went into thinking mode, so it looked like he was angry.

“A friend?” Jaskier offered with no small amount of hope. 

“Yennefer is family,” Geralt finally decided. “But we’re not involved like that.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, suddenly feeling very foolish for stirring this all up.

Geralt fell back into bed, and something like relief made his next breath easier. Jaskier slept with a lot of married people, but he was going to try and _not_ sleep with Geralt if he was married. 

“Glad we sorted out your moral quandary,” Geralt said, and he raised his arm as an invitation. “I didn’t actually want to go find the shackles. We haven’t used them in a while. No prisoners and all that.”

Jaskier slid into bed, and Geralt’s hand settled onto his throat. It was getting concerning how much he was starting to like that. 

“What if I have to get up to pee? We should have a code,” he said as he let the sleepiness descend. He felt Geralt’s huff on the back of his neck. 

“I think that’s a bard-killing offense.” He punctuated the poor joke by rolling his fingers on Jaskier’s skin. He smelled the spike of lust, and this time, he basked in it. Just a little.

And yet, the next morning Jaskier found himself locked in again. He really thought they’d gotten somewhere like emotional second base or something. He sulked the morning away, composing an alliterative piece about fish fucking. As lunchtime approached, his frustration hit a peak. The day was hotter than days past, and it was positively sweltering in the captain’s quarters. Not even a window to crack, Jaskier shed his chemise and lounged in another pair of Geralt’s pants. When Jaskier got bored, things didn’t tend to go well. When people _continued_ to ignore him after he made a fuss, things only escalated. 

He and his sisters used to scare each other all the time, in increasingly complex and dangerous ways. He’d once been dangled off a balcony by his belt in a spider costume. He went for nothing so elaborate this time. 

Geralt drew short straw to give the bard his lunch, and he thought he saw a hint of jealousy in Coen’s eyes. That was not something he wanted to analyze. He picked out a particularly hard scrap of bread and took the bard a length of dried meat. He took off the board with one hand and pushed the door open with his hip. Geralt blinked, not finding Jaskier anywhere until a figure jumped out from behind the door.

“Boo!” Jaskier shouted, but the end was strangled as Geralt pinned him to the wall. They both froze. Geralt’s hand felt large, compressing his chest, and Jaskier had no idea how Geralt had whipped out a dagger that fast. 

Geralt was blank, somewhere between alert and panic. He sure was touching Jaskier’s chest. The bard was slightly sweaty, his chest hair soft and scraping against Geralt’s fingers with every breath. The first thing he did was tuck the dagger away. Jaskier’s eyes followed it, but it wasn’t fear; _why was it never fear?_ The spice of Jaskier’s lust filled Geralt’s nose. The rabbit-pulse of Jaskier’s heart felt thundering under his hand. 

Without thinking, he took a deep breath, absolutely wallowing in the scent. 

A puff of air moved Geralt’s hair, and within ten seconds, he was out the door. 

Jaskier nearly collapsed, sliding down the wall on jelly legs. The air was _so_ hot, and did Geralt just fucking sniff him? Gods, he was so hard. He didn’t think he could get this hard this quickly. Maybe that was why he was dizzy. The impact, the feral glint in Geralt’s eyes, the _knife_. He’d always known he was fucked up, but getting turned on when about to be gutted, that was new territory for him. It took him several minutes to stop reliving the moment and realize he was alone, locked in again. 

“Fuck.” He unlaced his trousers—Geralt’s trousers—and pulled out his cock. He gave himself a squeeze just to take the edge off. He bit back a moan; he knew the Witchers would hear him. Geralt was so unfairly attractive. 

There was a problem with this, though. 

If he was going to jack off to a pirate captain in said pirate captain’s own room, he would need somewhere to… put it. He had no doubt whatever he decided to use to clean up would give him away, so he just—

” _Fuck._ ”

Jaskier breathed slowly, trying to get his heartbeat to calm. He could still feel Geralt’s hair against his jaw. Then the feeling of Geralt’s hand closed around his throat, his body behind him. _Sweet Melitele_ , he gave himself a slow stroke, just savoring the friction. He was so fucked. _He was so fucked._ A bit of precome beaded at the tip, and Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, smearing it down his cock. 

_Okay,_ he thought, not trusting himself to speak. _Okay, that’s enough_.

He tucked himself back in and took a deep breath. This was definitely a first.

When Geralt returned, much later than usual, the bard had fallen asleep with the lantern still lit. Despite Jaskier’s best efforts, Geralt could _smell_ it. It punched a groan out of him, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. When Jaskier didn’t stir, Geralt let the hand fall, leaning heavily on the door. _Fuck_ , did the bard know how fucking good he smelled? The room was stuffed with the heady, tangy scent of Jaskier, but Geralt couldn’t find a specific source like Jaskier had just oozed sex for hours. 

His cock started to fill, and Geralt’s gaze snapped to Jaskier’s sleeping face. Like the bard would wake up and see him, _catch_ him. With how Jaskier reacted to the earlier fiasco, that would probably end up pretty well. Or very poorly, considering how he viewed it. A traitorous hand ran over his hip, palming himself through his trousers. This was a bad idea. He pressed down harder, teeth denting his lip. Why was this a bad idea again? The bard might be a nice fucktoy until they managed to ransom him back to his snotty, Viscount family. 

He could see it; shucking off his pants, stalking to the bed, waking the bard with a cock to his lips. The bastard probably wouldn’t even be startled, just start sucking like a whore. Geralt bet he’d be good at it. All those other lovers, and he bet Jaskier could suck cock like a champ. He bit back another groan and pulled himself out. He stroked from root to tip, imagining thrusting into Jaskier’s soft mouth, finally shutting him up. Geralt’s hips bucked as he fucked up into his hand. He’d start with Jaskier’s mouth, but he would come all over the bard before he was done. 

Jaskier would say something cheeky, and Geralt would have to shut him up again. Jaskier had the lips of a pampered highborn, plush, soft, waiting to be devoured by some filthy pirate. Geralt would gladly play that role. His thrusts got erratic, and he squeezed his hand tighter as he imagined licking down Jaskier’s body. Opening him up, the bard squealing. Thrusting into that tight ass. Gods, he’d make Jaskier scream—

He spilled with a half-bitten grunt. 

His shoulders slumped back against the door, and shame crept over the back of his tongue. Maybe Witchers were really as disgusting as rumored. Now he had to get into bed with the man he’d just masterbated to and pretend he was touching him as a prisoner. He wiped off his hand, dousing it with a little seawater to get the stench off. He’d done worse things in his life, he thought with a sneer. Geralt put out the lantern and went to his place behind Jaskier. 

Even in his sleep, the bard snuggled in. 

In the morning, Geralt encountered two very terrible things. Firstly, he and Jaskier had drifted apart in the night. Jaskier was starfished at the edge of the bed, one foot hanging off, and Geralt woke on his back with one of Jaskier’s hands shoved under him. He had no idea how they got this way, but it was highly disturbing that the change in positions hadn’t woken him to subsequently strangle the bard. 

Secondly, it was raining. Geralt went to his desk just to get away from the bed. This was certainly not how he saw things going when he let the prick board on that lonely little island. 

It took all of thirty minutes for Lambert to kick in the door, a bottle of rum in one hand and a Gwent deck in the other. It startled Jaskier out of his sleep, and his head shot up, blinking blearily. Eskel and Coen filed in after Lambert, their own time-passing strategies in their hands. Geralt had to look away when Jaskier realized what was happening. The bard slowly came down from his jump scare, watching the crew of the _White Wolf_ spread pillows onto the floor. His head cocked, listening to the rain outside, and then a bright smile blossomed over his face. He laid his head back down, watching them settle with such fondness it made something itch in Geralt’s chest. 

He couldn’t look at any of his pack, either. As soon as they’d stepped in, they could smell what he did, were jumping to their conclusions with half-cocked lips and furrowed brows.

“Sleep well?” Lambert asked, full set of canines on display. 

“Quite well, actually. Though Geralt wasn’t here to threaten my life before I slept.” Jaskier pouted in Geralt’s general direction. When Geralt shuffled through his Gwent deck, ignoring Jaskier, the bard continued, “He was probably still off sulking because I scared the shit out of him yesterday.”

Eskel’s eyebrows went skyward when they discovered Geralt had very likely jacked off to the sleeping bard, and Lambert positively cackled at Jaskier’s assertion.

“Did you get him good?” Lambert and Jaskier shared a look.

“Jumped from behind the door. Almost get skewered, but it was well worth it.” His eyes slid over to Geralt, smirk at the edge of his lips very telling.

Geralt leaned over to grab his dagger from where he’d discarded his boots. Two could play at this game. Jaskier couldn’t take his eyes off the smooth glide of the whetstone as Geralt sharpened the blade. 

“Enough of your flirting,” Coen said. “I’m ready to kick Lambert’s ass.”

“Like hell you will,” Lambert growled back, and despite having an extra body in the room, they quickly fell into their usual rainy day routine. Jaskier went back to sleep for a while to the chorus of disgruntled grunts and the rain. It wasn’t a storm, no need to worry, but it was enough to call off work for the day. 

As soon as they all heard Jaskier drop off, the questions came out. 

“Did you at least wake him up to fuck him?” Lambert said. Geralt bared his teeth. 

“I didn’t touch him,” he snarled as quietly as he could. 

Lambert snorted. “I think that’s even more pathetic.” 

“It’s not like he hasn’t been trying to get into our pants this whole time,” Eskel said. 

Geralt tossed down his last card and grimaced as he lost. He rarely lost. Fucking bard. 

“He seems… nice,” Coen said, shrugging one shoulder. 

“He’s not a puppy. We aren’t keeping him.” 

“Why not?” Eskel stared, unrelenting, when Geralt caught his gaze. 

“You really think he’ll stay with us? Be what? Our barker? The longer he stays, the more he can’t leave. You want to be the one to execute him when he tries to go?” Geralt glared at each of his pack. “It’s already a risk to take him to Kaer Morhen. Are you ready to risk Ciri when he decides to go back to his _estate?”_ He spat it out like a curse, and Coen just barely flinched. 

“Whatever.” Lambert popped open one of the bottles. “Two marks says Eskel wins the next one.”

The mood was as dreary as the sky when Jaskier woke, and he stretched out, luxuriating. None of the wolves even spared him a glance. Jaskier pouted and leaned off the bed, reaching to tussle the nearest mop of hair which turned out to be Eskel. 

“Thought our payday’d keeled over,” Lambert huffed, and the off-color joke landed with exactly no one. 

“I’m a Sleeping Beauty, darling.” Jaskier flopped onto the bed, closing his eyes again. “I’ll only awaken with true love’s kiss!” When none descended, he popped open an eye to see them back to their game. It wasn’t the card game of earlier; this time they played with dice. Jaskier dragged himself off the bed, hip checking Eskel in the face and poking a sharp elbow into Coen’s thigh as he settled into their little circle. He arranged himself neatly with his legs folded, back ramrod straight—the perfect student. Still, none of them met his eyes. 

Had he done something? Been annoying in his sleep?

“What a maudlin pirate crew,” he lamented, propping his chin on his hand. “Suddenly my epic ballads are turning to dirges. Everybody likes a jig! How am I supposed to earn my keep if you won’t give me any good material?”

“I’ll tell you about the time Lambert almost got his dick chopped off,” Eskel volunteered and immediately dodged a punch from the youngest Wolf.

“Always ready to tell everyone’s business, aren’t you?” He seethed, and if they hadn’t been sitting across the gameplay from each other, Jaskier was sure more violence would follow.

“Oh darling, it’s great for business,” Jaskier said. “I’m sure it would have been a great tragedy had this… jilted lover? Angry spouse? Succeeded?”

“He’s not as much as a whore as you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, and the bard stuck out his tongue. Geralt shot Lambert a smirk and said, “It was a goat.”

“A fucking demon goat!” 

“Lil’ Bleater is an angel; you’re the demon.”

Jaskier’s eyes positively _shone_ as the Witchers argued about this Lil’ Bleater. He wished for a pen and paper to take it all down, to make the note that Lambert looked about ready to kill. All dice throwing had stopped. Lambert made a comment about mutton, and Eskel mentioned he knew where Lambert slept. Geralt and Coen made no move to stop either, content to watch the drama unfold, and so was Jaskier. When Lambert flicked a die at Eskel’s face, hitting him square in the forehead, Jaskier let out a peel of laughter, finally interrupting the scene. 

“Have you always argued like this?” He asked between giggles. 

“Lambert’s always been an asshole, yes,” Geralt answered and received a shoulder slap for it.

“No, bard,” Lambert said, baring his teeth, and suddenly Jaskier’s carefully curated, lighthearted mood vanished. “There’s no happy family for you to discover. We were made into this, so remember that next time you whine about your entertainment.”

Jaskier’s lips pursed. Quietly, he said, “This might be the happiest family I’ve ever seen.”

It struck deep like a blow to the gut, like a brass band at full fortissimo. 

“Among expensive parties and the supposed _highest_ of society,” Jaskier continued. “There are more daggers in their words than a pirate could encounter in a lifetime. I prefer that yours are in your boots.” His saucy smirk wasn’t missed by Geralt.

Coen tossed a handful of dice though it hadn’t been his turn.

“Thinkin’ you might like a dagger somewhere else too,” Coen said under his breath, and Jaskier laughed while blushing fiercely. 

“What can I say?” Jaskier shrugged and didn’t attempt to follow up. 

“Vesemir sure could stare daggers,” Eskel rumbled, settling back on one arm while they continued the game. “We’d be up to something, and then he’d just _glare_ , and we’d—”

Eskel tensed, shoulders at his ears, one arm awkwardly out as if interrupted while sneaking. His eyes were bulging, swiping about the room.

“What would you boys be getting up to?” Jaskier leaned into Eskel, who didn’t mind, smiling warmly as he remembered. 

“Sneaking food, mostly. Sweets for when the younger boys came out of the trials. Even some of Vesemir’s wine, once.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Geralt rolled his eyes, the motion nearly carrying over into his torso. “He gave us each a bottle and told us to run a hundred laps around the keep and to finish the bottle before we were done. I don’t think I’ve thrown up so much since then.”

“You didn’t try to pour it out?” Jaskier asked. Geralt and Eskel shot him twin _are you serious_ looks. 

“You don’t try to trick Vesemir,” Eskel said. “Steal from him, maybe. Annoy him, sure. If he thought we hadn’t follow his orders to the letter… I cannot imagine the hell.”

Geralt and Lambert both nodded, gazes far away in the past, but Coen stared at the dice. He seemed somewhere different. Jaskier reached out and brushed a hand to his knee, and Coen came back, head bobbing. Jaskier quirked his head, smiled. 

“What about you, Coen? Was Vesemir not your—ah—mentor?” Jaskier didn’t think they’d appreciate _daddy_. 

“I’m from a different school,” he replied, a tightness around his eyes. “They’re Wolf, and I’m school of the Griffin. I go along with their shenanigans, let people assume, but I’m not really a Wolf.”

“I suppose all the Griffins—?” Jaskier stared at his fingers splayed on Coen’s knee.

“Yeah, I’m the last one.” Coen gave him a smile that nearly broke Jaskier’s heart, and Jaskier abandoned moving closer to Eskel, crawling almost into Coen’s lap.

“I’m sure you have some stories,” Jaskier crooned. Coen’s mouth twitched open, his brow coming together, and then he looked over Lambert’s shoulder, looked at nothing. His tongue wet his lower lip, and the room inhaled.

“Well, I never stole anything,” he said, mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “But, one of the older boys would read to us sometimes. Bestiaries and potion ingredients when there was anyone else around, but there were some nights when it was just him and a few of us initiates. He told us stories of the Path, back when Witchers had their original purpose.”

“Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Jaskier said quietly.

Coen barked out a laugh. “He’d have bedded you soon as you offered, and you would have gotten plenty of songs about your little heartbreak.”

“I’m a reasonable man,” Jaskier said in the face of Coen’s laughter. Geralt snorted, calling the bard’s bluff, and Jaskier sent him a glare. “I can keep myself from heartbreak after _one night._ ”

“Of course you _can_ ,” Eskel hedged. “But _would_ you?”

Jaskier let out a scandalized _oh!_ He slapped Eskel’s side with the back of his hand, tossing his head. That was how the rest of the day went. Jaskier slotted himself into the butt of the joke to keep everything from sliding off into the mud. As they came to the close of the day, each Witcher found himself hoping it would rain the next day. When they finally made it out the door, Geralt was very aware how comfortable Jaskier was in the space. He’d been locked in there for days, Geralt reasoned. Of course he habituated, but then he couldn’t explain why _he_ was so comfortable with it. With Jaskier straightening out the sheets, humming some nonsense tune. With Jaskier clearing up the pillows from the floor. With Jaskier, puttering about as Geralt turned his back to wash up. He never turned his back on humans, yet here he was. 

Geralt extinguished the lamp before Jaskier had settled in, hoping the darkness would quell his unease. Jaskier fumbled at the sudden darkness, falling into bed, and just that _sound_ —Geralt wondered what Jaskier would let him do in the dark. 

He physically shook the thought out of his head. He settled himself far back on the mattress. If he wasn’t going to wake when Jaskier moved, there was no need to touch him. No _need_ , but Geralt _wanted_ , and that was even more dangerous. Jaskier waited for the familiar weight around him, but when it never came, Geralt heard him shift. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier reached out, searching, finding Geralt on the opposite side. His fingers bumped Geralt’s forearm, and before Geralt could stop it, Jaskier traced down his arm and laced their fingers together. He grit his teeth; it did _not_ feel good. Jaskier’s breath stuttered as he found no response in Geralt’s fingers. He squirmed closer, pressing against the line of Geralt’s arm.

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally said.

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier’s scent filled the air, and Geralt hated the way he relaxed at it. 

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier took it as a yes and continued, “You don’t ask Coen about his time as a Griffin, do you?”

Geralt shifted at the question. Nobody asked them about any of their lives. When they talked amongst each other, it was freely offered. Coen had as much right to share as any of them, but he just… didn’t. The life of a Witcher wasn’t an easy topic, so Geralt always assumed Coen didn’t want to talk about the massacre of all his brothers. He hadn’t thought there to be anything more.

“It’s alright, but I—” Jaskier paused, not often at a loss for words. “I’m going to keep asking.”

Geralt’s first instinct was to be wary, but it faded as soon as it came. What harm could the bard do? Coen would never reveal any Witcher secrets, and he could damn well let Jaskier know if he’d gone too far. Geralt ran his thumb over Jaskier’s palm.

“Thank you.” Even though Geralt hadn’t said anything. He felt the bard’s weight shift, coming towards him, on top of him. He didn’t tense or shy away, curious more than anything. He felt Jaskier’s breath on his cheek before the bard’s nose bumped his temple. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered, trying again. He landed a kiss on Geralt’s cheek. “Goodnight, White Wolf.”

Geralt bit his tongue as Jaskier pulled away, an odd fire taking his place. The bard’s heat was gone, his scent duller. Geralt’s hand was empty. His body felt like a live wire, like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin. Breath stuck in his lungs, and damn it all, he wanted to fall asleep with Jaskier in his arms again. Slowly, he pushed his hand out. He found Jaskier’s, their finger’s brushing, and the hitch in Jaskier’s throat was louder than a canon. Geralt left his fingers, just barely there against Jaskier’s skin. Just enough. Not too much. 

He fell asleep that way. 


	4. The town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick port stop turns out more complicated than expected.

The door was open. The _door_ was _open!_ Jaskier didn’t bother with his morning routine; he sprinted out onto the deck. Though the sky was still gray, Jaskier threw his arms open like he was atop a sunny green hill. 

“You’d think we were starving you, little bard,” Coen said from the higher deck. Jaskier turned with a smile no snark could dampen. 

“There is food for the body, and there is food for the soul, my dear,” he said. 

“You should be excited, then,” Coen continued. “We’ll be coming into harbor today.”

Jaskier plummeted: his arms to his sides, his heart through the floor, and his mood off a cliff. All color drained from his face, and Coen vaulted over the railing, landing in a hurry on the main deck. He scrambled forward, taking Jaskier’s shoulders. 

“We’re nowhere near Lettenhove,” Coen said quickly. “We’re just getting some supplies before going to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier blinked at the Witcher as color slowly returned to his face. 

“I’m sorry. It just took me by surprise, is all. Please, don’t fuss.” Jaskier batted Coen’s hands away, but the Griffin stayed close.

“Why did you run away from home?” He asked. He could imagine a lot. The world was cruel, and no one saw the bestial nature of humans more than a Witcher.

“Avoiding a slow death, my darling,” Jaskier whispered. 

Lambert kicked open the galley door. He and Geralt hauled out a barrel, mostly empty but unwieldy nonetheless. Eskel followed with a couple empty grain sacks. 

“I hear there’s to be an adventure today!” Jaskier sang, moving away from Coen’s mournful gaze. Geralt was shaking his head before the bard even finished.

“You’ll stay on board with Eskel and help load the food and water stores,” he said, and nothing about the finality in his tone deterred Jaskier from slipping into a pout.

“But I’ve been on this boat for _weeks—“_

“One and some change.”

“—I need a break, a change in scenery, or I’ll go positively mad and irritate you even more, you know I can,” Jaskier threatened, pausing to suck in air. “And I know none of you brutes have noticed, but I don’t have any fucking _shoes_.”

They hadn’t noticed. With a surprised twitch, each Witcher glanced down at Jaskier’s bare feet. The bard was often in a state of undress, so it’d never pinged their awareness. 

“Who do you think is buying you shoes?” Geralt’s arms crossed over his chest, and Jaskier slunk closer.

“Maybe the pirates who want an idea what my family can pay. What were you planning on asking for? A thousand marks? Five hundred ducats? Eighty thousand crowns?” Jaskier’s hips swayed as he stalked over to get in Geralt’s face. Only Coen noticed the tension in his spine.

“Nobody’d pay anything so high for a brat like you,” Geralt replied, showing off his canines with a sneer. 

Jaskier’s lips puckered. “Did I mention I’m the only son? Only heir to the Viscount seat?”

Geralt growled and looked away. Jaskier wasn’t going to let it go. He’d be insufferable and might even do something stupid like try to follow them into town. Eskel could only babysit so much while bartering with the harbormaster. Jaskier was a slippery bastard. 

“Fine,” Geralt growled. Every angry line melted from Jaskier’s face, melted into pure delight. Fucking bard. “But you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Oh, I promise,” Jaskier said in a way that was purposefully unconvincing. 

It wasn’t another three hours before they reached whatever port constituted the _rumor mill_. Jaskier never had a head for geography; he was just glad to see land. The Witchers were sufficiently distracting, but at the thought of getting back into a town—Jaskier was on it like a dog to a bone. Eskel had found some old, patched up, _ass ugly_ boots for Jaskier to use while heading to the cobbler. They were two sizes too big, and the left sole flapped away from the shoe every time he picked up his foot. It was better than wandering barefoot, they’d assured him. _Only slightly_ , he’d replied with a scrunched nose.

The mud squished into his shoes, between his toes in no time, but he paid the sensation no mind, reserving all his attention for the town.

It was, frankly, a bit shit. But it was new, and Jaskier would take a new shithole over a castle he’d seen a thousand times. The houses were raised on low stilts, even if the roofs were caving in. It was a steep trudge up to the town square which ended up being, thankfully, cobblestone. A well was at the center, and Jaskier watched people queue up for it. He was so engrossed in a game of cat and mouse two kids were playing that he ran headfirst into Geralt’s back when the Witcher suddenly stopped. 

He bounced back with an _oof,_ and Geralt turned on him with a scowl. 

“The cobbler is there past the tavern. Get some new shoes, and don’t get into trouble. I’ll be back soon, so stay here.” The last part came as more of a hiss, and Jaskier excepted the meager coin poured into his hand. 

“Really, Geralt? Am I to get summer sandals? To find boots of good quality—“

Geralt stalked off in the middle of Jaskier’s rant. Jaskier sang a verse of _Holly and the Oak Tree_ in his head and then set out after him. The Witcher’s boot tracks were easy to follow left, then right down an alleyway. Then he got up onto the wooden planks some shops set out as sidewalks, and Jaskier had to squint to recognize the boot and fresh mud over everyone else’s. He turned again down an alleyway when a hand closed around his throat, backing him against the wall. 

“I said stay put,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier had the good sense to look chastised. 

“Not getting anything past you, huh?” 

Geralt let go, shaking out his hand, and he turned to leave again. Jaskier sighed and headed in the opposite direction, back to the square. There went his adventure for the day. He supposed there must be some lad or lass willing to entertain a traveling bard for a few hours. Besides, if Geralt wasn’t going to fuck him, he would need to blow off some of this steam _somehow._

How much trouble could one bard get up to?

Geralt asked himself this and then immediately bent down to rap the walkway with his knuckles. With luck, the village would still be standing when he got back. He weaved through a few streets, making sure he wasn’t followed, then headed for the rendezvous spot. His contact thought he was funny and had chosen the back of a church as the pickup. Geralt was just lucky no parishioners wandered his way because they wouldn’t have taken kindly to his loitering. 

The bastard was late. 

Geralt didn’t like when his contacts were late, especially the few lordlings he had to interact with. The local Lord Azure was high enough to have fingers in lots of cookie jars but discreet enough to take Witcher coin. Geralt was about to take his leave when the carriage pulled up next to him. He nodded to the coachman, Thomas, and entered the carriage. 

“You’re late, Azure,” Geralt said. Best to keep the lord on his toes. Azure didn’t flinch, barely acknowledged Geralt’s presence. 

“What news from the sea?” 

Geralt pulled a hefty coin purse from his belt and dropped it into Azure’s lap. 

“For the upper Kerack refugees. Found some nasty pirates with their coin and figured an upstanding gentleman as yourself could send it on its way.” Before he could ask, Geralt tossed another, smaller purse at him. Azure twisted the ties in his fingers. 

“Redania is sending quite the treasure trove to their sweetheart princess in Cidaris. She’s not very happy about being married off to the runt of their neighbors, and she drowns her sorrows in silks. And gold. If one of these ships were to be diverted towards your territory?”

“Ten percent, as usual,” Geralt said. He didn’t like that Azure sounded like he was haggling. They’d had this arrangement long enough that the lordling knew his place. Perhaps he would need to be shown again… Geralt straightened in his seat, leaning forward with the scowl that intimidated humans. Except Jaskier. 

Dammit, now he was thinking about Jaskier. 

“Of course,” Azure replied, adjusting the cut of his sleeve. 

They continued with the rumors, and it flowed like normal. Geralt started to relax, chalking the beginning up to greedy nobles. He told Azure about several hits they made to a few different supply lines, and the lord took note on who would now be in financial straits. Azure shared waters to avoid, extra patrols from Verden. As their meeting drew to its usual close, Azure started to fidget again, and Geralt had to resist rolling his eyes. What now?

“There are rumors…”

Geralt tilted his chin down. “Really?”

“Yes,” Azure hissed. “Of a beast that comes at night. At first it ate the livestock, and then… last night a girl was found. The lacerations are too large to be any creature native to this region.”

“Spit it out.”

“It comes with the moon cycle,” Azure said eventually. 

There hadn’t been a werewolf hunt in decades. The Witchers had almost hoped they’d gone extinct. Fuck. He owed Lambert ten orens. 

“Any more information?” Geralt couldn’t do much with ‘there’s a werewolf maybe who might have killed a girl.’ 

“The deacon’s daughter was close to the girl that died, Joanie. She might know where Joanie was that night she got caught.” This wasn’t the usual info they traded, but Geralt appreciated the tip. Just because piracy was a more lucrative field didn’t mean Witchers stopped hunting. The carriage came to a stop, and Geralt exited into the town square. The carriage pulled away as if it had never been there. 

He found the bard staring. With an instrument in his hands. A lute?

Geralt stomped over, about to thrash the bard for stealing, but Jaskier seemed wholly unconcerned with the stormcloud rolling in. His eyes tracked the carriage as it left. As Geralt neared, his gaze dropped to the shiny boots that now replaced Eskel’s old pair. Well fitted and in fine, treated leather. 

“What are those?” He asked first, settling for the boots. He knew exactly what the bard could buy with the money he gave him, and this was well out of that. 

“They’re terribly stylish, is what they are,” Jaskier replied, pointing his toe and showing off his calf. 

“How did you acquire them?” Geralt’s arms folded, and he had a dim memory of lecturing Lambert when they were younger. 

Jaskier laughed. “The cobbler was quite a good man, very moved by my tragic tale. He so happened to have a noble who stiffed his last check, but alas! No feet to fit the shoes until I inquired after them.”

“And your tragic tale?”

Jaskier smirked, distracting in the way that it made Geralt’s jaw tighten, yearning to bite some of that teasing flesh. The bard stepped closer like a lover whispering a secret. 

“He may be under the impression I was kidnapped by pirates, which is true, mind you,” Jaskier began, blue eyes blinking at Geralt’s scowl. “And that they murdered my new wife in front of me. Geralt, it was supposed to be our honeymoon!”

Jaskier threw a hand over his forehead and started to lean into Geralt. The Witcher stepped away, letting Jaskier stumble to catch himself. 

“You lied.”

“I embellished. Besides, it seemed like awful good luck that he happened to have some in my size already made,” Jaskier said with an upturn to his nose. Geralt grunted, eyes flicking down to the instrument. 

“What about the lute?”

Jaskier’s face lit up like a barrel of gunpowder set alight. “Yes, Geralt, very good! It is a lute! One of my favorite instruments, in fact, and there was a lovely man over—ah, Johann!”

A barefoot man in rags turned an ashy face at Jaskier’s call. Johann did a double take when he spotted the grim Witcher next to the sunny bard. Like a snake in a flower garden. He approached warily, but Jaskier’s wild gesticulations only grew as he slowed. 

“Friend, this is Geralt of Rivia, my entrepreneurial partner,” Jaskier said with a flourish. Geralt sneered at his ‘partner’ and stomped on Jaskier’s toe, scuffing his new boots. “Ow, Geralt! Watch those boats attached to your legs, my gods, you’d think he’d never met anyone before.”

The last was directed at Johann who put on something valiantly close to a polite smile and said, “Witcher.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt couldn’t exit without knowing the mystery of the lute, so he was stuck, suffering in this godsforsaken conversation. 

“You see, Johann was entertaining the folk when I exited with my new purchase, and I of course was delighted to see a fellow troubadour—“

“Hardly,” Johann muttered with a good natured smile. He seemed to have forgotten about Geralt, focusing on Jaskier’s animated retelling. That happened to a lot of people, Geralt thought. 

“A fellow musician in his prime!” Jaskier declared. “I asked if we could perform a few duets, though I’m afraid Johann is only a master at the lute and not the voice. He generously offered to lend me the lute for a time, and we’ve been merrily whiling away the hours, well, _hour_ that you were gone.” Jaskier finished with an award winning smile which didn’t soften Geralt in the slightest. 

“Give it back. It’s time to go,” Geralt said. 

Johann sighed but didn’t reach for the lute. “Let the boy keep it.”

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier blinked at his newfound acquaintance then he said very seriously, “I would never deprive a man of his music.”

“My old fingers can’t treat her right anymore.” Johann waved him off. 

It took all of three seconds for Jaskier to throw his arms around the man. 

“The gods smile on those who patron the arts, truly, and this will come back to you tenfold, and all blessings on you and your children—“ Johann stopped Jaskier’s raving with a hard clap on the back. 

He said, “Just keep the music, lad.”

“I will,” Jaskier said solemnly, and it was the most serious Geralt had ever seen the bard. It felt like something passed between the two men, the Witcher confused at their bardic rituals. 

“Let’s go.” Geralt broke their intense whatever it was, turning on his heel. He heard Jaskier follow, footsteps loud in the mud. 

“Thank you, Johann! May we meet again!” Jaskier started humming, plucking at the lute strings, and Geralt was never going to know peace again. Jaskier trod behind as Geralt traced his way to the church. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said in the way that meant _I’m going to ask something annoying._ “This is not the shipyard.”

“Correct.” 

“Alright, fun adventure ahead! Good thing, since you deprived me of my last one.” Jaskier struck a dissonant chord. “Though it’s probably for the best. The Lady Azure would not so freely forgive the time I bedded her daughter, well, quite recently in fact. Very nearly a week before I escaped my estate.”

Geralt stuttered to a stop, Jaskier nearly running into him. Geralt turned and quickly backed the bard against the nearest wall. 

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but you’d best forget it anyways,” Geralt said. It was bad enough he let Jaskier roam like a pet around the ship; the last thing he needed was Jaskier knowing anything about their operation. 

Jaskier was quite unimpressed. “I _believe_ I just saw you exiting the Azure carriage. Honestly no one _else_ would need such an elaborate eyesore of a vessel, and since the Lord Azure is currently indisposed, I can only assume—“

“What?” Geralt keenly felt the missing weight of the two coin purses on his belt. 

“Lord Azure! Took a horseshoe to the head nearly a month ago? Hasn’t awoken since?” Jaskier rolled his eyes and huffed, “They are keeping it all quite hush hush, of course, so I’ll forgive you for going all—“ He wiggled his fingers. “—Witcher-y on me if you apologize.”

“How do you know that?” All that coin… The destitute settlers… A fist curled inside Geralt’s chest, both cold iron and burning brimstone. 

“Why, Nnenna told me. We bonded over our familial troubles, and she spent the night unclasping her woes into my chest, well. Not all night, of course, our passionate lovemaking took up several hours of our time—Geralt!”

Jaskier sprinted after his fast-moving Witcher, barely keeping track of the edges of his cloak around corners and down alleyways. He kept up as Geralt flew through the square, headed in the direction the carriage had gone. Jaskier’s new boots served him well, but he wasn’t exactly a marathoner. He was wheezing like a racehorse by the time Geralt lost the scent on a high traffic road. He pressed a palm to his side, massaging out a stitch while Geralt paced the length of the block. It was fascinating to watch, like seeing one of those hunting dogs track down a stag. When Geralt was off again, he was slower, methodical. They found the carriage discarded at the local stables, no sign of their phony Lord. Jaskier was about to suggest they get the others to help in the search when Geralt stopped in the middle of a muddy residential street. 

Houses rose high on either side, blocking out the low afternoon sun. Jaskier made out a figure in fine clothes stepping into one of the many doors at ground level. Geralt marched forward and busted in the door with one well placed kick. 

Jaskier had to pinch himself to make sure he was seeing right. 

There stood Lord Azure and a young man laden with travel bags, but in between the door slamming into the wall and the two fully turning in surprise, Lord Azure had dissolved into a regular looking young woman with ill-fitted clothes of the nobility. The young man yelped and put himself between the woman and the intruders. 

“Thomas,” Geralt said coldly. He felt the chaos in his medallion before the witch could try anything. He shielded with _quen_ before tossing out an _aard_ for good measure. They both flew back, and Geralt advanced. 

Jaskier stepped gingerly into the house and shut the door with a soft clank. 

“Don’t come any closer,” the woman warned, hands extending past Thomas’ shielding body. 

“A mage, Thomas? Really?” Geralt slid his regular sword from its sheath, and Thomas responded with a short dagger from his boot.

“She’s treated me better than any pissant lord, and when your meeting rolled around, well,” Thomas said with a sneer. “I figured you bring him goods to sell sometimes. Thought it’d be enough to get us out of here. And if you happened to hear that asshole took your money…”

“Kill him yourself. He’s in a coma; it’s not that hard,” Jaskier scoffed. Geralt shot him a glare, but it was true. A bedridden man wasn’t the hardest of targets. 

The woman lowered her hands, twisting them into Thomas’ shirt. “What are you going to do with us?” 

“That money’s not mine any more than it’s yours. I need it back,” Geralt said. He shifted his sword down, reaching out one hand to accept the coin purses. The woman pulled them out of her breeches and tossed them to the Witcher. 

Thomas dropped the dagger, turning to embrace his lover. As he moved, Geralt and Jaskier caught sight of her bulging stomach. Geralt didn’t move. The woman’s harsh gaze went even colder. 

“You’ve got your coin! Leave us be!” She pulled Thomas back towards a door, towards their rooms. 

Geralt ran his thumb over the smaller coin purse’s ties. Slowly, he put his sword away then held out the coin purse, palm up. 

“We don’t need pity from no Witcher,” Thomas snarled, and Jaskier had _had_ it with these two! 

“This _Witcher_ is twice the man you’ll ever be!” Jaskier stalked forward and slugged Thomas in the face, and really if Jaskier could get a hit in, this boy wouldn’t have lasted five seconds against Geralt. “Letting your pregnant wife, your baby, go hungry for your pride! The nerve of some people!”

Geralt didn’t miss the way his hand was suddenly empty when Jaskier brushed by, how the bard’s hand not occupied with punching had reached around and pressed something to the woman’s chest. Geralt suppressed a smirk at Jaskier’s furious expression when he turned around to march past. 

“Come on, Geralt, these people don’t deserve your kindness anyways.” Jaskier threw open the already broken door and made sure to step extra hard into the mud so that it splattered back inside. Geralt lumbered after his bard, the fist in his ribcage uncurling into something light and—dare he think it?—bubbly. 

Jaskier ranted, turning down streets at random, and Geralt planned on following until the bard cooled off. It was rather amusing after all. 

“Can you believe? And you knew that boy! Remembered his name when I’m sure no one in his life has bothered to do that! Honestly, would you ever do anything so stupid to endanger your daughter? Of course not!” Jaskier peeked back just to make sure, and Geralt gave him a slight nod. “Not all men are shining examples of fatherhood such as yourself, I just hope that witch beats some sense into him. Hm, ah, Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Where’s the way back to the ship?” Jaskier would lose his own head if it wasn’t attached, Geralt was sure. 

“Not going back to the ship yet,” Geralt said. “One more errand.”

“Oh right!” Jaskier bounced on his heels. “Our other adventure, though I must say this one was quite stimulating. If this is how you live your life, I’ll have plenty of material for my songs.”


	5. The town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their adventure turns out to be more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: slightly graphic depictions of childbirth? General blood and grossness, and a stillborn baby.

Jaskier followed as Geralt found his way back to the church. There was an older man gardening in the front, and Geralt walked up to the fence, leaning on it, making himself smaller. 

“The deacon’s house,” he said, and the gardener startled. He looked up and dropped his pruning shears, eyes going as big as the nearly ripe tomatoes next to his head. He wordlessly pointed at the half-stone house across the way, and Geralt nodded in thanks. 

Geralt drew up to the deacon’s door, and he knocked heavily. The sound echoed in the room behind the door. Large, then. Fairly wealthy for a town like this. 

“Is there a particular reason we’re here?” 

“A rumor,” Geralt answered before the door opened. 

The deacon was an exceptionally average man. Average height, average weight, average disdain for Witchers pinching his face. His clothes were not rags but couldn’t quite imitate true nobility. Like most humans, he had an average ability to make Geralt itch under his skin. 

“Come to repent?” Oh, and this one thought he was funny. 

“I’m investigating the girl Joanie’s death. I’m told your daughter might have information,” Geralt said. He ignored the way Jaskier’s heart did double time. 

“I don’t have a daughter,” he said, nose crumpling, and Geralt’s jaw tightened. _Lie._

“We just want to ask a few questions, good sir, and we’ll be on our way,” Jaskier said, stepping around Geralt to put himself in the line of sight. The deacon stared at Jaskier with a similar air of distaste. 

“I’ve no daughter for you to question, mutant, now kindly exit my doorway,” the deacon hissed, and Geralt could practically hear Jaskier’s spine nap straight. Good then, he heard it too. The lie. The hostility. Not at them, though there was plenty of that, but at the idea of _his daughter._

“What did you do to her? Did she turn, and you killed her?” Geralt asked, leaning onto the doorframe. Jaskier blinked at Geralt’s casual stance, but he crossed his arms in solidarity. 

“We only follow the gods’ instruction,” the deacon sniffed. “The girl was struck by their wrath, and so too did we turn her out.”

As the deacon spoke, something caught the edge of Geralt’s instincts. He looked past the doorway, to the edge of the house, and he saw brown eyes retreating around the corner. Only a moment later, a boy’s head popped back out, his eyebrows jumping when he met gazes with the Witcher. His eyes flicked to the deacon—his father, if the narrow nose and dimpled chin were any indication—then back to Geralt. Over the scent of mud, shit, and Jaskier, Geralt could smell the boy’s sadness, his anxiety. 

Geralt reached out to grab the back of Jaskier’s chemise when the bard lurched forward, spitting, “What do you mean you turned her out? Your own child?”

“Let’s go,” Geralt said, and the boy disappeared around the house. 

“Geralt, you can’t be serious! He’s abandoned his daughter, and he deserves a good thrashing, and if you’re not going to do it at least unhand me—“

Geralt tugged Jaskier back with ease, and the deacon slammed the door. He waited to release the bard until he was no longer squirming with the desire to deck the deacon. 

Jaskier turned on him with a hellish pout, “I should be allowed to punch whomever I please, thank you very much.”

“Be quiet,” Geralt replied. He started after the boy, tracking small footsteps around the side of the house, into the backyard. They had to duck under a window but weren’t bothered as they went behind the chicken coop. 

The boy waited there, crouched in mud and feathers. His jaw set as Geralt and Jaskier squeezed into the small space. Geralt tried to suppress a smile; he could see how this would be a nice place for a boy. Hidden and ill-used, you could get up to a lot back here without the interference of parents. Of course, the hideout was a bit small for adults. Both he and Jaskier, nearly the same height, had to stoop low and squish into about the same three feet. Jaskier put a hand on Geralt’s knee to steady himself and so happened to not withdraw it. 

“I’m looking for your sister,” Geralt said.

The boy fidgeted for a long time, plucking chicken feather fuzz from his shoes before he glanced up through his bangs. “You’re not going to eat the baby, are you?”

Jaskier’s hand tightened on his knee, and _yes thank you I caught that_ , Geralt wanted to say. 

“No,” Geralt replied firmly. “Is she pregnant?”

The boy’s mouth opened, but something ticked behind his eyes; he shut it. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier encouraged, and Geralt would probably spill all his secrets too if Jaskier smiled at him like that. 

“It’s just I don’t know,” the boy said. He swallowed thickly, the quick tears of childhood pooling in his eyes. “The healer said she sensed death in Rita’s stomach, and then Pa turned her out cold.”

The boy started crying in earnest, the weight of his bottled truth spilling over. 

“I’ve been sneaking her food, but I think Ma notices. Could you help her?” He looked between the two men, and Jaskier crumbled with a motherly _oh._ He shuffled forward, pulling a cloth from his pocket—one of Geralt’s bandanas. He didn’t like that; it was annoying that the bard stole from him. It certainly was endearing, certainly wasn’t a _claim._

“Yes we’ll help her, child,” Jaskier crooned, wiping away tears. “Take us to her, and we’ll do everything we can.”

They sat like that for a moment, Geralt’s knees cramping, and he thought of when Ciri had her nightmares, how his arms never seemed to be enough and Yennefer’s embrace couldn’t chase away the evils in her mind. He wondered how Jaskier would hold Ciri, what he would say to coax her back to the present. 

Eventually, the boy was fit to lead them, and he stuck a wary eye out to check for his parents. When the coast was clear, they all snuck back to the road. They let the boy walk ahead, rubbing his nose and restoring his pride. Geralt could feel the quiet storm under Jaskier’s skin. It only wound tighter as they walked until Geralt touched the back of his hand to Jaskier’s. 

“He turned her out, Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly so the boy wouldn’t hear. “Turned her out to birth her dead baby in the streets.”

“I know,” Geralt said.

“What are we doing? Why are you getting involved in some girl’s death?” Jaskier turned tired eyes onto Geralt. 

“Could be a werewolf.” It cracked some of Jaskier’s mournful air. The ghost of a smile haunted the edges of his face. 

“Right, a werewolf. I forget sometimes you’re a Witcher,” he said back. He thumbed over the now damp bandana in his pocket. “It’s a shame the werewolf is the only monster you can hunt in this town.”

“Hmmm.”

The boy led them to an inn’s stables a few blocks away, and the closer they got to his sister, the higher his spirits rose. 

“She’s been staying in the keeper’s stall on account of everyone knows it’s been empty since his last horse died. They say it’s haunted, and that’s why he won’t buy another one,” the boy chattered. They entered the stables with no fuss. Fresh hay and water sat in the troughs, so they’d just missed the stablehand. Good, they had time. 

A muffled cry made them all tense, and the boy dashed to the last stall. Geralt and Jaskier followed on his heels. They froze at the entrance. 

Rita was rail-thin except for the heavy protrusion of her stomach. She sat, legs spread wide, on a pallet of hay in nothing more than a nightgown and a thick sweater. The weather was plenty warm, but she shivered with every breath she took around the folded leather reins clenched tight in her teeth. The bottom of her dress was soaked through, clinging to her legs as she shuddered, another pained whine muffled by the reins. Her mouth fell open when she saw them, and the leather tumbled away. She took a gasp to speak, but another wave hit, clenching her teeth around a scream, feet pressing against the floor. 

“Teddy, what did you do?” She heaved, taking in full-body breaths. 

“They said they could help,” the boy answered, and he twisted his fingers in front of him. Jaskier landed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Teddy, you ought to run home now. Come visit Rita tomorrow when she’s feeling better,” Jaskier said, and the boy started to argue. Jaskier pinned him with a look. “Go.”

He took one last glance at his sister and darted out the door. 

“Stay away from me,” Rita whined, hands bunching in her sweater. 

Jaskier kept his hands aloft as he crept closer. “It’s alright. We just want to help you. Your water has broken. Are the contractions very close together?”

“It’s not right.” Her teeth clenched hard enough to shake her jaw, and she glared at them. “Men shouldn’t be here—“

Her gaze landed fully on Geralt, and she cut off with a cry that had nothing to do with her labor. She pushed herself back, further into the corner. 

“Don’t come near me! Abomination!” She spat at Geralt’s feet and shut her eyes, face turning away from the anticipated blow. Jaskier looked at Geralt, brows pulling together apologetically. 

“Geralt, go get some boiled water, towels, and a knife. Small and sharp.” Geralt nodded at the order and marched out, leaving the human to deal with the human. 

There were some days where he’d leave her. Go tell the innkeeper a mare was having her foal and head back to his ship. Then, there were days like this when he’d spent too much time with his pack, too much time with Jaskier, when he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be spat on. Anger—who was she to reject their help? Understanding—he knew what he looked like. Hope, that was the new one. A voice whispered that perhaps they could save the girl from dying in childbirth. It all roiled in his gut, and the stench of her blood and sweat lingered in his nose. He was just glad to have something to do. He went straight to the inn.

It wasn’t crowded this early in the evening. The innkeep thrust out his chin, tilting his head to look down at Geralt. 

“A pot of water, towels, and a pairing knife,” Geralt said, dropping a couple coins on the counter. The inkeep inspected the coins. He tapped one against the counter as if Geralt would give him a fake. He swept them all into his hand, satisfied. 

“Wait outside,” he said, and Geralt nodded.

The innkeep’s wife came out from a side door several minutes later, carrying his items. A scream pierced the evening air, and she startled, nearly dropping the pot. Geralt reached out to steady it, but she jerked back, sloshing a good portion onto her dress. She looked at the items, looked at Geralt, flinched at another high screech. 

“If you’ll be needin’ anything else…” The woman said. She passed the items into his arms, careful not to touch him. He nodded his thanks and headed back. 

“You’re going to be fine, my dear, just hold on,” Jaskier said, kneeling before Rita. She tugged her legs together but groaned, spreading them again. Jaskier took off his lute and placed it to the side. 

“Why am I cursed like this?” She sobbed. 

“You’re not cursed,” Jaskier said firmly. “Sometimes children… sometimes we just lose them. It’s nobody’s fault. We have to live through it. Can you do that for me, Rita?” 

She wiped her forehead on her sleeve, and with a gulp, she nodded. 

“Okay, I’m going to check on things down here, alright? In a very professional capacity, you see.” Jaskier brushed the edges of her skirt until her baleful glare turned into a reluctant nod. 

He hunkered down, chanting chord progressions to himself so he wouldn’t faint. Really, it wouldn’t do to hype the girl up then pass out on her. Things were… progressing well? The midwives had always been very descriptive about the process, so he could tell no one was bleeding out or tearing the unmentionables. The contractions were close, but he couldn’t exactly tell if it was time to get going. 

“Am I—?” Her voice, trembling, made him find his again.

“Things are quite normal down here, but I’m afraid I need to know how soon your pains are coming. How do you time your bread baking, my dear?” He tried to give his most disarming smile, and it seemed to help a little. 

“I say the cataclysms, and by the time I reach the fifth, it’s usually browned,” she said. 

Jaskier’s brow twitched. “Quite the maudlin theme. I wonder if you’ve heard the sweet _Jenny Rebecca?”_

Her body seized, a terrible shriek ripping from her lungs. Her hands balled, and upon finding no relief in biting fingernails, they flexed out like claws. Jaskier kept a secure grip on her calves, something for her to tense against. As soon as it came, it passed. She deflated against the hay.

“Cataclysms it is then. Begin now, if you please.” Jaskier nodded. 

“Of the seraphs called forth, there numbered seven, and such were the days that followed,” she began, hardly above a whisper. Jaskier listened as she described the ice and fire that rained upon the earth. He leaned to capture her hand, making her fumble over the description of thundering trumpets. Her grip was strong. Geralt returned as she headed into the verse about the star. Her eyes tracked him, but she kept with her recitation. As the star fell, her throat seized, cutting off with a gutteral squelch. Her grip was suddenly crushing, and Jaskier’s mouth fell open in an attempt to curtail his own scream. 

“Very good, it seems it’s time. Good you’ve come back, Geralt. We need that water—oh.” Jaskier dipped his fingers in the water, expecting to be scalded, but he found it freshly cold from the well. “We need it for sanitizing. Is there anything to be done?”

Geralt hummed and formed a sign. Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up as Geralt pressed his hand to the metal. The water was soon bubbling. 

“Alright. Handy. Prepare the towels and allow them to cool only to be comfortable to the touch,” Jaskier commanded. “As for you, my dear, it is time to rise.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?” She squawked. 

“To your feet, Rita. This is how your mothers gave birth!” He helped her to her feet, and the movement freshened the tears to her cheeks. She gripped the edge of the stall, and her other hand bunched into her sweater. 

“What now?” Her limbs shook. Blood and fluids streamed down her legs, but she stood firm. Jaskier fidgeted around for a moment, trying to get an angle for the birthing process, but nothing was to be done. He gave up and laid on the floor, wriggling till he was fully underneath her. 

“Now when the next cramp comes, I want you to push. Gravity will help, but you’ve got to be strong. I know you are. I know you can do it.” Jaskier babbled encouragement as Rita lapsed back into her cataclysms. 

Geralt wanted to crawl out of his skin. He didn’t belong here. The miracle of birth shouldn’t be shadowed by a mutant specter of death. The scent of blood and pain was all too familiar, and the pounding of her heart beat against his ears. It felt like coming off high toxicity, everything burning against his senses yet nothing to do. He crouched, turned away to make her more comfortable, and he waited with the towels, keeping the water warm; it was all he could do—

“Geralt?” How long had Jaskier been asking for him? “I’ll need the knife once the baby comes. Is it clean?”

Geralt hurried to dip the knife in boiling water. Rita let out a sob. 

“My baby’s dead.” Her eyes squeezed shut, arms flexing. “My baby’s dead, just let me die with it. My baby’s dead, my baby.”

“You’re not going to die, Rita. I’m not going to let it happen,” Jaskier said. If silence would give her the chance to think about it, Jaskier could fill the silence. “I was present at four of my sibling’s births, and my mother lived through every one, even through the two that didn’t make it. They don’t make Lettenhove women particularly strong in other areas, but they know how to birth their children.

“My youngest sister’s labor was the worst. She came right in the middle of a ball, totally premature by three weeks. Kept Mum up for eight hours. She started out breach, and they had to turn her, then she got a little tangled on the way out, and they had to cut the cord fast. After all that, she had the nerve to come out completely silent. Almost gave my mother a heart attack then and there. She was fine. Sputtered a little then started wailing up a storm.”

Rita’s shoulders jumped with a crazed laugh, and her fingers nearly took her sweater apart. She inhaled to reply then let it out as a screech, every muscle going taut. 

“Now, Rita, push!” 

She did. She bore down on the searing weight inside her and _pushed._

“There’s the head. You can do this, just a little more!”

Rita’s jaw clenched so tight something in it creaked. She couldn’t feel _any of it_ , all she felt was burning and pain and the snot running down her face. Her baby—gods, what was happening? It seized her, that fear, in the space between one push and the next, and her body nearly went lax, but Jaskier gripped her ankle.

“Don’t you dare give up!” He snarled. 

She cried out, a lightning pain making her head jerk, and she pushed back against it. Sweat broke on her forehead, a rolling drop taking the same path as her ceaseless tears. Then suddenly, a weight dropped like a ripe peach falling from the tree. It felt like there was new space in her lungs, and she gasped in a monumental breath. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice was like the first winds of winter. She looked away as Jaskier cut the umbilical cord, as he wrapped the baby’s body in the fresh towels. 

“What is it?” She asked, shaking. 

“A boy,” Geralt said quietly. He washed the baby’s face. The grime of childbirth, slowly stripped away, to reveal that he had his mother’s nose. It was a softer version, rounder, but he would have grown into it in time. 

“Let me see him,” she said. 

Jaskier ran a soothing hand over her knee but said, “We still have to finish the birth, then you can hold him while we clean you up, okay?”

Meekly, fragile, “Okay.”

It didn’t seem right to put the baby down, but neither did it feel right to hold him like normal. Head supported in the crook of his arm, body tight against his chest. Geralt was struck by the fact that he’d never held a baby before. In all the long years of his life, no woman had ever allowed him close enough to hold their baby. He wasn’t sure this even counted. Geralt swallowed harshly around the fact that nothing he could do would make this feel right.

Rita’s throat grated around a wail when she went to push again. A whine slipped through her teeth and, “Should it hurt this much?”

Jaskier shifted on his back, straining his neck to look closer. 

“Darling, I see another head.”

“No, please,” Rita whispered, addressing no one in the room. “Please, _please.”_

She cut off with a pitiful version of her earlier scream, already raw and exhausted. Everything about her body hurt, and then a sharp stab crowded out everything. Rita nearly doubled over, only staying upright by Jaskier’s grip on her legs. She was panting, no sound worthy of the agonizing, the _ripping_ low in her belly. Her legs were about to give out.

“ _Witcher,”_ she whined, reaching a clawed hand out to Geralt. 

He stood, shifting the baby to his right arm. He slung his left around her front, catching the bottom of her ribs and allowing her to lean all of her weight onto him. She melted immediately, one hand gripping across his body. As the next wave came, she scrabbled against his armor, finally catching the edge of his breastplate. The leather creaked under her grip. She raised her head enough, and for a moment, she stared into his golden eyes. She was a mix of gratitude and despair, but everything subsided as she traced the patterns in his iris. This close, his face was so very human. It left in a wave of pain, forehead bumping his shoulder. 

“He’s coming. I’ve got him,” Jaskier said, and the world went still. 

Like a glass blown bubble, it all cracked at a rising wail. 

“Now that’s a set of lungs!” Jaskier laughed. He worked quickly to take care of the cord, clean the baby off a little. They still had the placenta to birth, but they could have some time to appreciate their wonderful surprise. 

“My baby,” Rita breathed. “My babies.”

“Twins,” Jaskier agreed, and he wriggled from under her legs. She pushed against Geralt’s grip, and he let her down slowly, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting go completely. Jaskier nestled the wet mass of towels into her waiting arms. 

Geralt could hear the baby’s wet gurgles of breath, its tiny fluttering heartbeat, its— _his_ head turning in the fabric. 

“You can sit for the rest of this, so you can hold him,”Jaskier said. He took her hand, helping her down to the dirt and carefully putting her ruined skirts beneath her. He turned her so she could lean against the stall walls. 

Rita was absorbed. She barely felt Jaskier’s hand at her stomach, the pull inside her. The little life in her arms took all her attention. His face was so scrunched like an angry old man; it brought a hapless chuckle to her lips. _He was alive._

“The healer was wrong,” she cooed, stroking a finger over his hot forehead. “Didn’t look hard enough.”

Jaskier finished with the afterbirth, and he exhaled. He felt like he hadn’t really breathed since all this began. When he turned to Geralt, he was positively glowing, and he watched Geralt’s face soften. But something haunted still lurked in his eyes. The other child still sat lifeless in his arms. Jaskier’s lips pressed together, and he approached. His bloodstained hand hovered over Geralt’s cheek. 

“Thank you, love,” Jaskier said quietly, and he moved to take the baby. Geralt hesitated, but he ended up carefully shifting the swaddled mass into Jaskier’s hands. 

Jaskier knelt next to Rita and held the baby so she could see his face. 

“Would you like to name him?” Jaskier asked. 

“No.” Rita reached over like she was going to touch the baby’s face, but her hand stalled. She reached past, taking a corner of the towel and draping it over his face. “Can we bury him?”

“We can do whatever you want,” Jaskier replied. 

“Can we bury him here?” Her red, puffy eyes shifted to Jaskier. “Now?”

“Alright, Rita.” Jaskier turned to Geralt and asked, “Could you help us out with that?”

Geralt nodded, relieved to have something to do. Jaskier took the last of the towels and started the cleaning process. He used a delicate touch, but a feather’s caress would still hurt after what she’d been through. Geralt checked the stables; there was always a shovel laying about. He took a pitchfork for good measure and was back by the time Jaskier was finished. 

“In here?” Geralt gestured to the floor of the horse stall. 

She nodded with a dull sparkle in her eye. “I figure old Temperance's ghost can keep him company.”

Geralt’s lips quirked. He wouldn’t mind being buried with his horse. He used the pitchfork to loosen up the hard dirt, and then he dug in with the shovel. Jaskier went to fetch an oil lamp as the sun went down. Geralt hit gravel about five feet down, and with a glance to Jaskier, they decided it was deep enough. 

“May I?” Jaskier said, stepping towards the small grave. Rita nodded, and Jaskier sank to his knees. Reaching, he carefully placed the body at the bottom. 

“Good night,” Rita said. 

Geralt began to fill the hole, and Jaskier put his arm around her shoulders. He collected his lute from the corner. With a lot of support, he started to walk her out of the stables. The innkeeper’s wife met them halfway. 

“Oh dear gods, Rita!” She went to smother Rita with a hug, but she thought better of it, gazing down at the baby between them. 

“Could we have some water and a meal? And a fresh dress if you have one? My companion can pay for it once he comes along,” Jaskier said. 

“Return my pot, and we’ll call it even,” the wife said, and they herded Rita into the inn. They were taken to the back where the kitchen’s heat unknotted Rita’s muscles. Jaskier washed up as much as he could. He took the baby while Rita got changed, and she wanted to hold him while she ate, but she settled for Jaskier squished close, cradling her child. 

That’s how Geralt found them when he was bustled to the kitchen, and it stopped him in his tracks. Their heads pressed together, cooing over a newborn, a bright, aching happiness on Jaskier’s tired face. He almost spun around and left, fled to his ship, and took sail. Jaskier deserved some life like this. But then Jaskier glanced up and beckoned him over. 

“What will you name him?” Jaskier asked, tilting the swaddled towels to show Geralt the cute little face nestled there. 

“What’s your name?” Rita countered. “I owe you my life. His life.”

Jaskier waved a hand and said, “My name is incredibly boring, and I resent my parents for it. What about the name of the greatest man I’ve ever met?”

Rita’s eyebrows twitched up, but she waited for the suggestion. 

“Name him Geralt.” Jaskier winked at the hunkered Witcher, awkwardly big in such an enclosed space. 

“Geralt,” she repeated, and she snuck a glance at _the_ Geralt. “I like it.”

Geralt had to get the attention off himself immediately, or he might combust. 

“Rita, I’m trying to find out more about what killed your friend Joanie,” he finally said. Rita pressed her lips together and held her arms out for the baby Geralt. Since she was done with her meal, Jaskier passed the baby back. 

She held him close, like a charm, and she said, “I think you mean _who_ . We were out in the woods when we weren’t supposed to be, and we heard an animal near. We ran, but he caught up to Joanie. Once he was…” Rita shifted baby Geralt on her shoulder, “ _finished_ with her, I watched him change. The alderman’s son.”

_Fuck._

“Fuck.” 

“Geralt! The baby!” Jaskier snapped, and Geralt sneered at him. He hated dealing with bureaucrats, and it was his right to express himself. 

“The alderman was always paying the people who got their livestock eaten. He would always say that to be a strong community we _all_ had to be strong,” Rita said. “I think he knew what his son did.”

“Which way to the alderman’s?” Geralt asked. 

“You won’t find them there,” the innkeep’s wife said from the doorway. Her mouth was a thin line. “He pays the butcher’s boy to bring whole carcasses out to his hunting cabin in the southwest woods.”

Geralt nodded his thanks and started out, but the woman stepped in his path. Didn’t touch him, but he stopped. 

“Joanie’s parents have put out a reward for the beast,” she said. 

“Hmmm.” Geralt brushed past her. Jaskier made a commotion behind him, but Geralt was out the door. When he heard the bard following, then he knew he had to stop. Again. _Humans_. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked, rounding on the bard. 

“Coming with you,” Jaskier said as if it had been obvious. The vision of him and Rita, nestled above the baby, flashed through Geralt’s mind. 

“Go back to the girl,” Geralt said coldly, and Jaskier’s eyebrows went up. “Or go back to the ship.”

“I see.” Jaskier’s gaze made him squirm, like the bard really could see through him. “I’ll go say my goodbyes. I’m sure they can point me to the harbor.”

Geralt sighed and said, “The reward money.”

“What?”

“The reward money,” he repeated. “See if it’s enough to get the girl room and board until she gets back on her feet.”

The bard’s smile was worth it. Fuck it all, it was worth it. Geralt turned on his heel and headed southwest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped this chapter for the TW: Jaskier and Geralt help the deacon's daughter through childbirth. Her first one is a stillborn, but it turns out, she had twins, and the second one lives. She names him Geralt at Jaskier's request. She then tells them that the werewolf they're looking for is the alderman's son. Geralt goes on the hunt, and Jaskier heads back to the ship. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm also a slut for choral music and slip a lot of songs I've done in my work. 
> 
> Jenny Rebecca: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uk9re3AF3Bk
> 
> Also, the cataclysms are based on this absolute banger of a treble piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeHCnK_Mr8Q


	6. The hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes after the werewolf; Jaskier makes the Wolves take a bath.

On his way back to the ship, Jaskier couldn’t help but hum a new tune. New boots, new lute, and he helped birth a child! If he thought it wise, he would be shouting in the streets. As it was, he didn’t think the village would appreciate his celebrations. He was walking, head in the clouds, so he didn’t notice the shadow following him. 

A hand gripped his arm, and another came down over his mouth. Jaskier tried to throw an elbow back, but a hard body came to him, lessening the blow. 

“What have we here?” A voice growled. “A little lark in the night?”

Jaskier stuck his tongue out to lick the hand over his mouth. His attacker yelped and pulled his hand away, shaking it out. 

“Lambert, you ass!” Jaskier spun and landed a feeble punch on the Witcher’s chest. 

“What can I say? I like pretty things,” Lambert said. Jaskier jutted out his jaw, but he didn’t try another hit. They fell into step with each other. 

“What have you done with your day? It likely cannot top mine, so I’ll allow you to go first,” Jaskier said. 

Lambert flashed a grin. “Whorehouse. They like me here.”

“Ugh!” Jaskier spat into the dirt, but as his clothes were filthy, he didn’t have anywhere to wipe his tongue. “I can’t believe you touched my face with your sex hands!”

“Oh, I didn’t even think about it,” Lambert chuckled. “I’ll apologize for that. We got up to some freaky shit…”

Lambert trailed off and scented the air, recoiling. As they passed a tavern, Lambert used the lamplight to inspect Jaskier’s clothes. 

“What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

Jaskier preened. “I’m so glad you asked.”

Finding the hunting cabin was easy. There was a path from the village like an elephant had drunkenly charged home. It was littered with the scent of wolf and death. Geralt readied his silver sword and crept to the window. A single candle illuminated the one-room cabin. There was a figure hunched over in a chair, blood spilled over the floor. Geralt found the door unlatched and barged in, sword aloft. 

He froze in his tracks when the hunched man looked up. The alderman. In his arms, he held a pale body—his son—and they were drenched in blood like they’d just come from the womb. Geralt straightened out of his fighting stance but kept a tight grip on his sword. 

“When I heard Witchers had docked, I came here straightaway,” the alderman said flatly. 

“Your son was the werewolf,” Geralt said. “He killed the girl. Joanie.”

“Yes.” The word seemed to make the candle flicker, the alderman’s face twisting into new macabre portraits with every tremble of the flame. 

“Did he bite you? Scratch you?” Geralt couldn’t see any wounds underneath all the blood. 

The alderman’s eyes caught the light, and Geralt tensed, raising his sword again. 

“I’m the one who turned him.” No matter how much control a werewolf had, when the full moon was out, they couldn’t hide their slitted pupils. 

“I didn’t know werewolves could have children,” Geralt said. 

“I didn’t either,” the alderman replied with a hysterical giggle. “I was so careful with my wife. Making love so softly. When I found out she was pregnant, I prayed to every god that he hadn’t inherited the curse.”

“He did.” Geralt’s fingers shifted over the hilt, eyes flicking about the room. 

“Wouldn’t you know it? She gave birth on the full moon, and he tore himself out of her,” the alderman said quietly. “She died begging me to protect him.”

Geralt had no more words to trade; he needed to know if this was a fight. The alderman, however, needed to get the story out. 

“He was learning so well. He’d started changing back earlier and earlier, controlling himself in the wolf body to hunt animals and stay clear of town. I was always there, of course, but—“

“It only takes once,” Geralt filled in. 

“Exactly.” The alderman took a shuddering breath. “He was distraught. He knew the girl. Knew her parents. He decided he couldn’t risk it happening again.”

The alderman’s hand rolled off his son’s shoulder, blood trailing between them. Geralt set his jaw. 

“Then I shouldn’t be here,” he said and took a step back, not trusting enough to turn. 

“Wait, Witcher,” the alderman commanded. “I am three hundred years old. If there’s anyone like me left, they’re hiding better than I. I’d thought to turn my wife, if she agreed, but then I had my son, and now…”

“Your business is your own,” Geralt growled. “You’ve not hurt anyone. You can continue living with the humans.”

“I am a coward,” the alderman whispered. “I can’t promise I won’t turn anyone again. I’ll mourn for a while, but then I’ll get lonely again. It is the worst thing they do to us, isn’t it?”

His eyes blinked emptily at Geralt, then he continued, “It may be twenty years. Fifty. A thousand after I’ve gone mad. I’ll turn someone, just for the company. Then we’ll start this over again. Please, Witcher. Do your job.”

Geralt’s head shook _no_ before he even noticed. “You won’t talk me into killing you.”

“Fine, then,” the alderman said. His nose crumpled, face bunching, turning red. 

With a sinking feeling, Geralt hefted his sword. 

The alderman’s body jerked to the side, and his son toppled from his lap. Bones snapped, being remade, and fur sprouted from nowhere. A grotesque mockery of a wolf replaced the alderman’s body, and he lunged for Geralt’s throat. Geralt swung and stepped to the side, allowing the dead werewolf to slump to the floor. This was usually where he would take the head to claim his reward, but Geralt left without looking at the body. 

All he wanted was to go back to his ship, his crew, to Jaskier, but he had one more loose end to tie up. He picked his way back to the inn, not very keen on seeing Rita again. There was nothing wrong with her; the idea just made him twitch. He loitered outside the inn for a moment, cleaning off his sword, before finally pushing his way inside. 

The inn’s common area was nearly empty, and Geralt tried to count back. How late was it? He hadn’t thought the hunt took long, but he supposed he spent a lot of time in the woods. A man sat in the corner, a stack of plates in front of him. He had a baby in his arms, and with a jolt, he realized it was baby Geralt. (He was going to kill Jaskier for that.) Without thinking, he started to charge over when the innkeeper’s wife caught his attention. She rounded the bar and put herself in his path. 

“Joanie’s parents came by,” she said, glancing towards the man. “They’re letting her rest upstairs.”

“The werewolf is dead.” Geralt couldn’t help the scowl he kept shooting at what was apparently Joanie’s father. “Along with the alderman.”

“Oh my,” the woman fretted, fluttering a hand over her mouth. “Did you mean it?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did your partner tell us true when he said you were gunna give the reward to Rita?” Her mouth was set hard, but there was nothing unkind about it. Geralt shifted back on his heels; he hadn’t thought he was going to be confronted with that. 

“If I wanted to steal from women and children, I would attack Verden’s navy,” he muttered. The inkeeper’s wife nodded curtly and turned on her heel. She marched over to Joanie’s father and baby Geralt. He smiled kindly up at her and shifted the baby into her arms without a second thought. The woman came back, and she held out the freshly bundled baby to the Witcher. 

Geralt’s eyes went wide, but his arms arranged correctly. She placed the newborn into the crook of his arm. 

“You ought to at least hold him, I think,” she said. 

Geralt puzzled at the life in his grasp. Was he ever so small? So fragile? He remembered the first stone at Blaviken. Marilka’s face and Renfri’s broach in his hand. _Yeah_ , he thought. _I used to be this soft_. He didn’t dare touch the baby’s skin. His callouses were thick, uncomfortable for such fresh skin. But the weight in Geralt’s arms, so slight yet so important—Geralt felt unmoored. 

“Geralt,” the Witcher whispered. 

Joanie’s father came to hover behind the inkeep’s wife, and his anxiety made gooseflesh crackle along Geralt’s neck. He was overstaying his welcome. 

It took a lot of effort to hand the baby back, but when he was safely nestled in the woman’s arms, Geralt fled. 

“You’re shitting me,” Lambert said as he lumbered up the gangplank. 

Jaskier followed with a grin and said, “I’m not.”

“What’s he done now?” Eskel asked. He was still carrying boxes into the hold, but these were the lightest, the breakables. 

“Geralt got a baby named after him,” Lambert relayed. Eskel stopped in his tracks. 

“You’re shitting me.”

“That’s what I said! No broad is going to name their kid after a Witcher, even if Geralt is the pretty one,” Lambert said. 

“It had nothing to do with Geralt’s pretty face,” Jaskier said. “We helped her birth the baby, and he turned out to be a boy.”

“Why didn’t she name it after you?” Eskel glanced sideways at Jaskier, setting the small box he’d been carrying on top of a barrel. Jaskier meandered closer and leaned on said barrel like the madam of a brothel. 

“I suggested Geralt. It’s a much better name than mine, and besides,” Jaskier said, grinning. “Absolutely worth it to see his face.”

“I guess that’s why you look like hell,” Eskel said. He picked up his box again, vials rattling within. Jaskier sniffed the air and put a hand on its lid. 

“What are those?” He lifted the lid to take a peek inside. 

“Yen makes us get perfumes and stuff when we dock,” Eskel shrugged. Jaskier lit up at the mention. 

“Does she have a new one for every day of the year?” There were easily dozens of vials of perfumed oils alone, and Jaskier spied several promising containers—lotions?—on a lower level of the packaging. 

“Well,” Eskel hedged, fidgeting with his grip. “I forgot what she told me to get, so I just got all of them.”

Jaskier took pity on him for exactly three seconds before he burst out laughing. “Surely, she wouldn’t mind me taking a scant few if it meant you all stopped smelling like wet dog.”

“We do not!” Eskel complained. Jaskier gave him a look and started rummaging through the vials. He sniffed each cap, the scents wafting faintly from when they were poured, and he picked out a few that he’d never known a woman to wear. Orange, pine, and oh, was that chamomile? The scary witch might actually want that one, but that was what she got for sending a Witcher to do her job. 

The air was still plenty warm from the day, so Jaskier didn’t mind drawing a bath. He dragged the tub under the stairs to avoid the wandering eyes of the harbor. A single oil lamp dimly lit the deck where each of the crew found themselves passing the time. Eskel had finished with his tasks and was carving something into the railing on the opposite edge of the ship. Lambert had already taken to the rum. Coen returned by the time he’d filled the bath, and Jaskier popped open the chamomile. 

“Coën, darling, how do you find this scent?” Coen met him halfway, and Jaskier waved the vial under his nose. Coen flinched back, the scent overpowering. 

“It’s strong,” he replied, and Jaskier frowned. He stuck the bottle right under his nose. 

“I can hardly smell it. Can you still smell it from there?” Close enough to touch, Jaskier settled the vial against his chest. 

“It’s better,” Coen said, and Jaskier filed it away. He supposed he should have assumed Witchers were sensitive to perfumes, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Accordingly, he only put a few drops into his bath. If he put his head right at the water, he could smell the suggestion of chamomile. Should be perfect.

“Are all trips to your unscrupulous towns so exciting?” Jaskier asked, scrubbing the dried blood from his throat. Laying beneath a woman giving birth, now that was a way to get unmentionable fluids in unmentionable places. Especially when he didn’t have a proper doublet to shield himself from the world. 

“What did he do?” Coen asked, and Eskel huffed a laugh. 

“I’m hurt, dear friend, that you’d assume it was _me_ ,” Jaskier said, tossing his head. “But I’ll regale you of the tale anyhow.”

“It’s good,” Lambert said. Jaskier blew him a kiss, making him smile more than he would if he was stone sober. 

“It all started when this lovely man gave me his lute—“

“He just _gave_ you a lute?” Eskel interrupted. 

“Yes, as I said he was a very nice man, and I’m delightful,” Jaskier said. “But then I discovered that Geralt’s contact, the shady Lord Azure—”

“Bard,” Lambert warned, and Jaskier let out a frustrated groan, splashing his bathwater like a child. 

“I’ve already gone over this with Geralt! Yes, big scary Witchers can’t have lowly bard-prisoners knowing their dastardly plans, but really, Geralt just got out of the carriage in the middle of the square. Anyone this side of Sodden knows Azure has the worst taste in carriages,” Jaskier snapped. “Now can I get on with it?”

“Please do. I’m intrigued,” Coen replied with a nod. 

“So anyways, I recognize the carriage, and I ask Geralt about it. He nearly bites my head off, but I happen to have the valuable information that the Lord Azure is currently in a coma. I know right?” The startled looks he got were really fuelling his bardic ego. “So we chase after the fake Azure because he has a _lot_ of money that Geralt gave him, and we find him. But he’s a she! It was a witch using a glamor!”

He didn’t receive the appropriate scandalized gasps, but he could work with it. 

“They were quite rude, but we got the money back. Then, Geralt went to hunt down the rumor that there was a werewolf in town that had killed a young girl, and the person who last saw her was a pregnant girl thrown out by her parents because the healer said she was going to have a miscariage.” Lambert growled at that. “We found her in the inn’s stables in _labor_. Luckily, we’d gotten there just in time, and we birthed the babies. It was twins, you see, but one of them had died, and that is what the healer found. But she got one child, and she named him Geralt for the two dashing men who helped her.”

“And what of the werewolf?” Coen asked.

“Geralt set off to find it when I returned to the ship. I bet he’ll be along anytime now,” Jaskier said. A blanket of unease settled over the Witchers. Geralt didn't need any help for just one werewolf, but now that they knew he was out there, hunting, it left a bitter taste in their mouths. 

“Did he know who it was?” 

Jaskier nodded. “The alderman’s son. And he knew where he would be.”

Satisfied that Geralt wasn’t likely to be falling into a trap, the tension lessened somewhat. Jaskier was determined to wipe it away completely. 

“Eskel,” he whined, tipping his head back over the rim of the bath. “Come wash my hair.”

Said Witcher stared at him like he’d asked to be tossed overboard. “Wash your own hair,” Eskel replied, making Jaskier wag his head petulantly. 

“But it’s so much nicer when someone else does it. Don’t you agree?” His gaze skipped from frowning Witcher to frowning Witcher, conforming his suspicions that these men had no idea how to pamper themselves. 

“Wouldn’t know,” Lambert said through his teeth. He took a long pull from the rum. 

“ _Oh, darling_ ,” Jaskier crooned. “It’s simply divine. You must let me do it for you. You needed a bath anyways.”

“What—“

“You do reek,” Coen said. 

“I’m not just talking to Lambert, you know, though he does have a rather ripe odor about him,” Jaskier said. He dunked himself under the water and reached for the oils and soaps to do his hair. “Not quite a once in a lifetime offer, but I have it on good authority I’ll be departing soon. It would be a shame if you missed out.”

Coen agreed immediately, if only so the bard would stop looking at them like a kicked puppy. They ate a sparse dinner, laying aside some food for Geralt’s return. The Witchers could hardly get Jaskier to stop chattering long enough to take a meal, but he devoured his food at the prospect of getting straight to the baths. They pulled Coen fresh water to avoid bathing after Jaskier’s birthing adventure, and Jaskier chose a mix of orange and pine to treat his Witchers. He busied himself with getting a stool, arranging the bottles and whatnot as Coen disrobed. The Griffin seemed much more shy about nudity than the others. He sank in, the lukewarm seawater refreshing after the heat of the day, and Coen found the scents not overpowering. 

“You haven’t much hair up top for me to work with, but if you could dunk your head, my dear,” Jaskier said, right behind him. Coen’s instincts prickled at the threat, the unknown, but he stifled them. He trusted Jaskier this much, especially with his brothers keeping a watchful eye. Coen dipped his head underwater then rested against the side of the tub. 

Jaskier began to hum something Coen had never heard before. It was close to a lullaby, soft and soothing. At the first touch of fingers on his scalp, Coen tensed, but Jaskier pushed on. His fingers, slick with oil, spread from the crown to the nape, massaging gently. He watched the Witcher nearly melt and suppressed a victorious smile. By the time he worked down to Coen’s beard, the groans had started. Jaskier used them like a roadmap, pressing into tense muscle when he heard that telltale rumble from Coen’s chest. He held a lot of tension in his jaw, and Jaskier coaxed his mouth open so he could work at the joint. Jaskier heard Eskel’s breath hitch as he pressed his fingers beneath Coen’s chin. There wasn’t much corded muscle there to massage, but Jaskier liked to thoroughly lather the face and neck at the very least. Coen didn’t mind, even tilting his head foreward so Jaskier could massage out the back of his neck. 

The Witcher was the most relaxed Jaskier had ever seen when he stepped out of the bath. Coen’s shyness had vanished beneath a haze of pleasantly loose muscles. He nodded dreamily at Eskel and started to towel off. Eskel was out of his clothes fast enough to pop a seam in his shirt. This time, Jaskier didn’t suppress the small giggle as Eskel got into the scented water. He dunked his head and whipped it back once, speckling Jaskier’s fresh shirt with water.

“See what that gets you,” Jaskier huffed, but he relented when Eskel went stock still. 

He started humming again, composing a sweet lullaby about their miracle baby Geralt. Eskel was as easy as Coen, and within minutes of nails scraping scalp, he was fully relaxed. Jaskier rubbed circles at his temple, but then the treatment paused. Jaskier stroked one finger lightly down Eskel’s scars, and the tension was back.

“Will these hurt if I touch them?” He asked quietly. Eskel pressed his lips together, containing something that balled in his throat.

“No,” Eskel replied. All he wanted was for Jaskier to continue. He could take a few scar aches if it meant Jaskier’s hands didn’t stop. 

At the first tentative touch, Eskel’s nerves sparked. He usually only touched his scars to hide them or the scratch where the skin got dry. To have _this_ … Jaskier’s touch was gentle. He didn’t dig in like he had with Coen, just rubbing the oil into the skin. The subtle scent enveloped Eskel, and he was sure every time he rode through a pine forest or walked an orangery, he’d think of Jaskier. Then the fingers slipped to his neck, thumbs pressing into the back, fingertips bumping over his Adam’s apple. Eskel had been shocked when Coen bared his neck like some lovedrunk pup, but he understood now. _Gods_ , he understood. When Jaskier reached his shoulders, his fingers hovered there, lightly stroking over Eskel’s muscles. 

Eskel sighed, knowing Jaskier would do this as long as he wished. He wanted to stay there for another hour or two or three, but Lambert was getting antsy. His bottle was nearly half empty. Drunk Lambert was not known for his patience. Eskel reached up and patted Jaskier’s hand. He stood, exiting on shaking legs. 

“Lambert,” Jaskier sang, gesturing towards the bath. Lambert passed his bottle to Coen who took a swig, and he undressed on his way over, leaving a trail of clothes behind him. Eskel wound up his damp towel and smacked Lambert’s bare ass. Lambert took a swing, but Eskel danced back, taking the rum from Coen and having a drink.

“Piss off,” Lambert muttered, slipping into the bath. They’d intentionally put the dirtiest last. Though Jaskier could tell Lambert had genuinely made an effort to wipe himself down before leaving the brothel, the scent of sex still clung to him. And not in the sexy way. 

Jaskier got to work, but Lambert was stubborn. It was like he refused to relax beneath the bard’s attentions. Jaskier pursed his lips. That wouldn’t do at all. He leaned over, one hand beckoning Eskel. He and Coen scooted their chairs foreward, and Eskel lent Jaskier the rum. 

“So I’ve had a crazy day. You all must have them all the time,” Jaskier said, taking a long pull. It was strong, not one they’d nicked from the human pirates. This was distilled for Witchers, and Jaskier made a face as it burned down his throat. 

“Well,” Coen said, after a considerable silence. “There was the time we found a kraken.”

“You did not!” Jaskier’s fingers worked down Lambert’s head, rubbing behind his ears. Lambert shifted in the water. 

“We did,” Eskel chuckled. “Though it was just me and Coen on board, cause those assholes had portaled away for some meeting or other.”

“I forget sometimes you have a witch.” _Portals_. _That means they can send you back at any time, geography be damned—_ Jaskier let the thought slide through his mind and exit accordingly. It wouldn’t do to get tense on someone he was trying to relax. 

“It was fucking huge. We think it came out of hibernation too late to snack on the whales that pass by every year. Decided to take a bite out of us,” Coen said. 

“Bet we tasted like shit,” Eskel laughed, knocking Coen’s knee with his own. Jaskier smiled and listened attentively as they told their tale. Lambert eventually relaxed, though it took him most of the story. Jaskier massaged down the back of his neck, avoiding the areas that made the others tense. 

“And they found us,” Coen said, damn near tears. “Holdin’ on to a couple empty barrels, drunk as Skellige sailors!”

Even Lambert let out a chuckle as he remembered portalling twenty feet in the air. The witch had _not_ been happy about taking a swim, and they had to commandeer themselves a new ship. It was lucky they were such good pirates. Jaskier laughed, the tips of his cheeks rosy from drink. 

“It was going to go to waste anyways,” he said, and Eskel shouted _exactly!_

“Craziest story I’ve got is about my first kill. Two days out of Kaer Morhen, green like a spring garden, I found a fucking unicorn,” Lambert said, tilting his head to emphasize that it was a _fucking unicorn_. “I followed it into the forest. It disappeared, and I was attacked by an ekhidna. Lucky that she was just about starving, or I wouldn’t have been good enough to kill her.”

“You were what? All of eighteen?” Coen said, a smirk on his lips. “They let us out before that. I took down a nest of nekkers when I was sixteen.”

Jaskier giggled at the way Lambert’s chest puffed up. The Witcher whirled in the bath, sloshing water everywhere and making Jaskier jump back or be drowned. 

“Nekkers are fuckin’ easy,” Lambert growled. He surged upright, standing to his full height. Coen averted his eyes, just barely, and Lambert took that as a win. He started to towel off. Jaskier plucked the rum from Eskel’s fingers and took a burning sip. The bottle was nearly heavier when he gave it back, plopping it into Eskel’s lap.

“I’ve got you all beat,” Jaskier said, the hint of a slur blurring his words. 

“You’ve killed someone?” Lambert tossed an incredulous look over his shoulder as he pulled his trousers back on. 

“Yep,” Jaskier replied. “Eight years old. The _Comte de Laucret._ ”

It didn’t land like his tipsy brain thought it would. He laughed anyhow, trying to soothe his Witcher’s severe expressions. 

“A cantankerous fellow, or so I’m told. My mother asked me to pour his wine and add some _special flavoring_. I didn’t realize until he was dead that it was poison,” Jaskier said. He raised a curled hand as if toasting. “To first blood!”

Silence, and then Lambert said, “That’s fucked up.”

“A bit, yeah,” Jaskier sighed. “Such is what it takes to be Vicount de Lettenhove. My eldest sister has killed the past three men who tried to court her. Two of them deserved it, though.”

Damn, he didn’t mean to be such a buzzkill. To break the static in the air, Jaskier hauled himself up and started dragging the tub to the railing. Out from under the stairs, it was a little breezy. Eskel helped him dump the water, and Jaskier scanned the docks for any sign of their White Wolf. Their single lantern didn’t shed much light on the shore, and the moon was blocked by clouds. Nothing. Eskel’s hand smoothed over his shoulder.

“He’ll be back soon,” Eskel said. A stiff wind sliced through Jaskier’s thin shirt, making him shiver. 

“Gods, he’ll be freezing if he has to take a bath out here,” Jaskier said. “Summer is on the decline, I suppose.”

“We usually spend the winter in Kaer Morhen. The north waters get icy, and we can’t hardly sail them, so we pack in,” Eskel mused. He drew circles lazily against Jaskier’s shoulder blade. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we decided to put up a bard for the winter. Can’t promise it’ll be you, though.”

Jaskier barked out a laugh. “Keep me for a rainy day.” 

Eskel wasn’t quite sure what lurked beneath that statement, but he knew that wasn’t what he meant. Jaskier dropped the wash bucket over the side and started the long process of hauling up another bath.

“Be a dear and drag this to Geralt’s room?” Jaskier asked, kicking the tub. 

Lambert and Coen said their goodnights, off to enjoy a deep sleep thanks to their talented bard. Eskel stayed up, watching Jaskier cart bucket after bucket into Geralt’s quarters. Eskel kept an eye on the shore for any sign of Geralt. It was getting quite late, and one werewolf shouldn’t have taken this much time. Especially if he’d known where it was going to be. Still, it could have been far out into the woods, or he could be attending to business in town. Eskel shifted in his seat, and he almost didn’t notice when Jaskier came over, dragging his own seat. He shoved it as close to Eskel as it would get, then plopped down. 

“Seafaring is hard work,” Jaskier whined, leaning heavily on Eskel’s shoulder.

“It’s a choice, for some,” Eskel replied. Something moved in a bush on the shore, and Eskel couldn’t help but zero in on what was probably just a nest of seagulls.

“But not for you though.” Jaskier looped his arm through Eskel’s as if they were young lovers out for a stroll about town. “Not for any of you.”

“Lambert hates it the most. It’s not always so bad. To have a purpose.” The rum long gone, there was nothing within reach to dull the edges of this conversation. But Eskel let himself feel it. He didn’t often indulge—wallow—in his own feelings, but Jaskier felt safe. If he ever wanted to talk, his brothers would understand, but would they? Eskel always thought they’d all reacted so different. Geralt becoming hard and taciturn. Lambert’s rage. Coen’s self-inflicted isolation. 

“You love them very much, don’t you?” Jaskier asked around a yawn. As if it was the most casual question in the world and not something that punched the breath from Eskel’s lungs. 

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “They’re my brothers.”

Jaskier squinted, the dark planes of the ship running together. He hadn’t quite burned through all the alcohol yet, but there was something he’d witnessed, something on the tip of his tongue—

“Brothers,” he said, and Eskel shifted as if to put distance between them. Jaskier only let his body lean more. “But you didn’t grow up with _all_ of them.”

Eskel’s smile as he bumped knees with Coen. Coen giving Eskel all the glory for slaying the kraken. Lingering eyes, used to jumping away at the right moment. Oblivious Lambert. Jaskier had been right when he’d first set foot on the Witcher’s ship. It smelled of heartache and heroics. He was beginning to also pin down the onion-y smell of stupidity.

Eskel grunted in response, and Jaskier drew a _C_ on his chest.

“Why don’t you tell him?”

Eskel’s eyes closed, head tilting back. “There’s nothing to tell. Nothing I need.”

“There’s also nothing wrong with wanting something,” Jaskier pouted. “Someone.”

“Hmmm.” Jaskier pressed a finger into the deep ridges between Eskel’s eyebrows. Eskel’s eyes peeked open, and his face relaxed, Jaskier’s finger coming to press against his forehead. 

“Geralt wants me to believe he doesn’t like holding me at night,” Jaskier said. “I’d bet I’ve touched all of you more than you’ve gotten in the past month, just because I want to. Because it’s how I am.”

“It is nice,” Eskel admitted, twisting his hand and caressing over Jaskier’s wrist. 

“It doesn’t have to be undying love. It can just be a touch.” Jaskier burrowed beneath Eskel’s chin, making a pillow of the Witcher’s chest. “You’ll wake me when Geralt returns?”

“Of course, Jaskier.” For a moment, Eskel hoped Geralt would take his leasure, if only to give Eskel some time to mull over the bard’s thoughts.


	7. The ship, again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier finally do something about their sexual tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Geralt has a panic attack near the beginning

Geralt made it back before the moon started it’s descent. His hands were still tingling from holding the baby— _such a small life, so fragile, so innocent._ His mind clung to the memory, the feeble warmth, the baby’s gums shifting in his sleep. The thought was shattered by the vision of the alderman’s son, bloodied in his father’s lap. Life, birth, death; it was all the same. Bloody and terrifying. He was so absorbed that he nearly missed Eskel and his bard sitting near the galley door. He stopped in his tracks, blinking at another pair of golden eyes. 

“Hunt okay?” Eskel asked, and the stony draw of Geralt’s face said enough. Geralt’s eyes dropped to Jaskier, nestled into his brother’s chest. Something shifted. All his tiredness, all the blood of the day, and he just wanted to curl up next to Jaskier and sleep. 

Eskel roused Jaskier gently, muttering in his ear. The bard blinked his eyes open then they widened at the sight of Geralt returned.

“Geralt!” Jaskier flew from his seat and made to throw his arms around Geralt, but he was stopped with a hand to the chest. 

“Not now, bard,” Geralt seethed, turning towards his room. His fingers tangled in Jaskier’s shirt, and he dragged the bard along. Jaskier turned to Eskel with a smile, a shrug, and a dreamy swoon. 

“Eskel and I weren’t worried at all, but it did seem an awful shame that you were missing from this evenings’ events, so I went ahead and—“ Jaskier trailed off as Geralt opened the door to his room, faint light casting on the tub filled with water. He’d put a few drops of chamomile, and the scent made the room seem softer. 

Geralt caught Jaskier’s wrist and brought his hand up, as if he were introducing himself to a lady of high society. He took a deep breath against Jaskier’s knuckles. “So that’s why you smell like a tart.”

“I do not!” Jaskier ripped his hand away, and it had nothing to do with the blush rising in his cheeks. A hunger sparked behind Geralt’s tiredness as he watched the heat spread across Jaskier’s neck. 

“Stop by the whorehouse with Lambert on your way home?” Geralt’s mouth formed words that his brain hadn’t allowed, and the hunger turned into something much closer to anger. Jaskier folded his arms and kicked the door closed, depriving Eskel of his view. 

“Get in the tub,” he ordered. Geralt refused to pout. He shucked off his clothes with brutal efficiency, leaving them in a bloodstained pile on the floor. He tested the water but found it a little cold. Geralt formed _igni_ and got in it once it was to his liking. 

“Gunna bathe me?” Geralt asked, flicking the surface of the water. 

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier answered. Geralt’s jaw clicked shut. “I even got Lambert to calm down, but I see I’ll need to pull out all the stops for you.”

It didn’t even hold its usual flirtation; Jaskier was being frustratingly serious. Geralt didn’t know why he was feeling so _full_ , so _bursting,_ like the only thing keeping him together was his skin. It seemed he was a wildly swinging pendulum, one second basking in the victory of the day, of Jaskier’s attentions, and the next drowning in blood, slicing the alderman’s abdomen, the hot stench of his organs spilling onto the floor—

Jaskier’s hand stroked over his head. It was irritating; he wasn’t some dog. It was divine; he would heel for Jaskier any day. It was as disturbing as it was distracting. The hand pet down, over his ear, holding the side of his neck. Geralt felt Jaskier’s fingers ghost over his throat, and he wanted to tilt his head back, to bare himself to Jaskier, but a willful fire burned in his tense muscles. He didn’t know if he _could_ move. 

“They were very impressed with our day,” Jaskier said quietly. “Will you wet your hair for me, love?” 

Geralt obediently dipped his head underwater. The scent of chamomile was subtle but nonetheless dizzying. 

“Mmm, yes, and then they told me some stories. We got a little tipsy. Did you know Eskel has a mole at the base of his neck? Just there, at the hairline,” Jaskier recounted. Geralt huffed out a tired chuckle. There was one winter Eskel lost a bet to Lambert of all people, and Lambert made him shave his head. Eskel very quickly learned to knit hats. 

Jaskier’s fingers worked their magic as he delved into a painfully boring account of the evening without their Captain. Geralt found he didn’t mind, found it washing over him like the faintly scented oils in his hair. Jaskier massaged out his neck, then his shoulders, digging lute-strengthened thumbs into thick, corded muscle. Geralt expected the musk of Jaskier’s arousal to join the cocktail of scents, but Jaskier stayed dedicated to his task. Geralt wasn’t disappointed. He felt too relaxed to be disappointed. He knew how to get Jaskier going, if he really wanted. The bard kept talking, moving on to stories from his childhood, artful descriptions of his favorite part of the estate gardens. 

His fingers pushed down Geralt’s arms, pausing to wash away any blood or dirt. Geralt hadn’t had a strenuous day, not by Witcher standards, but it was still heavenly for Jaskier to massage down his biceps and forearms. He didn’t expect Jaskier to continue to his hands, and it set something alight in him. The pads of Jaskier’s fingers were not the hard sword callouses of Witchers, but certainly they were not soft. Jaskier picked meticulously under Geralt’s fingernails, not a patch of dried blood to remember the day. The bard washed away everything until all that was left was Geralt, lulled into a quiet meditation on Jaskier’s many uses. It was a good thing the bard couldn’t smell arousal, or the pampering might have ended too soon. 

“Would you like me to continue?” Jaskier asked, just next to Geralt’s ear. His palms rested on Geralt’s chest, still above the water, still above reproach. 

“Don’t stop,” Geralt breathed. He groaned as Jaskier’s hands pushed lower, Jaskier’s arms wrapped securely around him. He stopped at Geralt’s stomach, nearly making the Witcher growl. He pulled his hands back, pressing into Geralt’s skin. 

“I’m here if you’d like to talk about what happened with the werewolf. Or anything today,” Jaskier said, pushing his hands back down. “But I’m here if you need this, too.”

Geralt grabbed one of Jaskier’s hands and ripped it off of him. 

“I don’t need anyone,” he said through his teeth. Jaskier’s breath blew past his ear as the bard retreated. 

“Ah yes, _don’t stop, Jaskier_ ,” Jaskier muttered, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Well, see if you ever need information from a woman in labor, I’ll be mysteriously absent.”

“And yet still not quiet,” Geralt shot back, and Jaskier’s astounded gasp loosened some of the coil in his chest. This was normal. This wasn’t about the girl or the wolf or the refugees in Kerack; this was Jaskier sauntering into his field of vision with a hand on his hip and a mouth readying for a tirade. 

“Lets count off how Jaskier has been useful today, shall we? Lord Azure—“ He ticked off one finger. “Rita—“ Another. “And I would have beaten that lousy deacon silly, if you’d have let met, so I think that counts, not to mention the lovely massages I give—”

Geralt rose from the bath, skin glistening with the bath oils. Jaskier’s gaze fell to Geralt’s already hard cock, and his mouth dropped open, for once blissfully silent. Geralt stepped out of the bath with heavy, purposeful steps. He watched Jaskier’s pupils go wide as he backed the bard against the wall. A very familiar position. Geralt nestled a hand into the hair at Jaskier’s nape, used it to jerk him back so his throat was bared. 

“You call yourself useful, _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt said lowly, and the bard trembled. “Yet here we are.”

Jaskier tried to look down, to catch a glimpse of that gorgeous cock again, but Geralt’s stern grip kept him high. His brows pulled together, and he let out a whine. From the way Geralt’s fingers flexed, he knew he’d pleased his Witcher. Geralt loosened his hold, and immediately, Jaskier was on his knees. He steadied a hand on Geralt’s hip and looked up with wide eyes. 

“Well?” Geralt rumbled, and Jaskier took the head into his mouth. Against the wall, Geralt’s hands turned into fists. _Fuck_ , it was nearly too much when Jaskier swiped his tongue over the slit, sucking in another inch. Geralt didn’t know how long he’d been hard, maybe sometime between the hands in his hair and on his shoulders. Jaskier sunk down halfway, testing his limits, and Geralt wanted to come just at Jaskier’s eyes, blue and sparkling beneath heavy lashes. Jaskier rubbed his thumb at the base of Geralt’s cock, and pressed forward to take more and more and his eyes were watering, nails biting into Geralt’s skin. 

Geralt could barely contain the long groan that accompanied Jaskier’s movement. The bard started to bob, little thrusts of his head, just rubbing Geralt’s cock at the back of his throat. It was like Geralt couldn’t get enough air. Everything was Jaskier’s hot, wet mouth and pleasure rolling like thunder over his already grated nerves. He was raw, wanting, and Jaskier exploited every bit of it. It was so close to being too much but not enough at the same time. Another choked off moan hissed through Geralt’s teeth, and he felt Jaskier’s mouth come off him fully. 

His eyes snapped open to glare, but it skewed into leering as soon as he saw Jaskier, head tilted back against the wall, mouth lolled open. He took himself with one hand, slowly so that Jaskier could change his mind, but Jaskier only seemed to grow more impatient. Geralt pushed his cock into Jaskier’s eager mouth, the bard’s head pressing back into the wall. Jaskier’s hands grabbed at Geralt, nails digging in, urging him into a faster pace. Geralt stared at his cock disappearing down Jaskier’s throat with every quick thrust of his hips. _So pretty, all mine_ , Geralt thought brokenly. _All mine._

“Mine,” Geralt growled, the word pushed past his lips as he felt Jaskier’s tongue curl around his cock. Jaskier moaned, spit and precome leaking out the edges of his mouth. Geralt’s world narrowed to Jaskier, trapped on his cock and still begging for it, and then—

Blood. 

Geralt gasped as the image of the alderman flashed through his mind. Father and son left in a bloody mess, an infant still hot from the womb buried in a horse stall. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rasped, trying to pull the scattered tendrils of his thoughts. One second about to come in Jaskier’s mouth, the next—“Shit.”

Jaskier pressed on his thighs until Geralt slipped out of his mouth. 

“Alright?” Jaskier said. _Fuck_ , the bard’s voice was fucking wrecked, and now Geralt had fucked everything up like he always did, like he did with the hunt. Jaskier stood, pushing up through Geralt until the Witcher was face to face with him. 

His glistening, swollen lips said, “Geralt, we’re going to stop now.”

_Always fucked it up, always, always._

“ _No_.” 

Geralt lunged for another kiss. Jaskier’s head snapped back into the wall as Geralt captured his lips. Geralt grabbed at Jaskier’s thighs, but they squirmed against him. Then the bard nearly kneed him in the gut. He pulled back with a snarl, but when he saw Jaskier’s face, he froze. 

“Geralt, get the fuck off me,” Jaskier said. Geralt stepped back, palms up. Jaskier went over to the bed and sat on the edge, pointedly avoiding looking at Geralt’s still wet, naked body. “Blow out the lamp before you come to bed.”

Jaskier shucked his shirt, still damp from washing four Witchers, and he laid with his back to the room. Geralt put out the lamp and stood there in the dark. Jaskier’s heartbeat thudded against his ears, and he tried to tune out the quick breaths. The darkness usually painted images on his eyes, his failures, his kills, but this time, he was just confronted with Jaskier’s radiating irritation. He might have hoped for one of the softer emotions like worry or sympathy, but he was a Witcher. He didn’t need any of those things. Geralt didn’t bother with clothes, and he climbed over Jaskier into his own bed. Jaskier turned onto his other side. 

The space between them felt like a chasm, and Geralt balled his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out. If the bard wanted to keep his distance, Geralt wasn’t going to be the one to bridge it. Jaskier had been fawning over him for a week, touching and prodding and asking questions, and Geralt could handle one night of the cold shoulder. He didn’t even care. _He didn’t._

“The son took his own life,” Geralt said quietly. He heard Jaskier stiffen then roll onto his back. “I found the alderman with the body, but _he_ was the original werewolf. He begged me to kill him, but when I refused—“

The darkness felt like a hand reaching down his throat. 

“He made you,” Jaskier filled in, turning fully to Geralt. 

His Witcher didn’t answer, but Jaskier suddenly understood the violent mood swings. It had been a hell of a day. Jaskier pushed his hand through the blankets, searching, and Geralt met him halfway, tangling their fingers together. Jaskier used it as leverage and hauled himself into Geralt’s space, wrapping around him like an octopus. Geralt buried his face into Jaskier’s neck. He took a deep breath and then pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s throat. 

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier breathed and held him tighter. 

…

Jaskier awoke sweating. The sun was apparently trying to prove him wrong about the waning season. They’d set sail while he slept in, and he could hear the lap of waves against the hull. Off to the elusive Kaer Morhen. He shucked off his sticky shirt, looking for another clean one. All he could find was one of Geralt’s black tunics, and though he made a habit of avoiding the dreariest color, he would make an exception just to see the Witcher’s face. Now completely decked out in Geralt’s clothes, Jaskier was beginning to look the part of a pirate. The bath still needed to be taken care of, so he started dragging it slowly out of Geralt’s room. 

And oh, the sight that beheld him when he stepped on deck. 

Witchers truly were a heightened species. Did they come in any other size than _hulking_ ? Tight muscle underneath well-fed, hairy skin, but still so light on their feet. Geralt and Eskel were wrestling on the deck, their shirts discarded in the heat. Jaskier hardly paid attention to Coen and Lambert practicing their hand to hand. Geralt managed to get on top of Eskel, and when it looked like he’d be pinned, Eskel displayed a _dizzying_ dexterity by bringing his leg over Geralt’s head somehow? Jaskier wasn’t quite sure among the writhing bodies and movements like snake’s lunges. He knew he needed Eskel to teach him that. 

Geralt ended up with Eskel in a headlock against the outer railing. There were obviously no hard feelings as they walked together to their water stash. Eskel’s eyes caught Jaskier leaning in Geralt’s doorway, and Jaskier made a show of fanning himself. Eskel broke into a grin, and Jaskier had no choice but to return one in kind. 

Eskel clapped his captain on the back and said, “Smells like you enjoyed Jaskier’s services last night.”

Geralt tensed like a feral cat, but Eskel plowed on through. 

“He used his own scent on you. Now that’s a claim if I ever smelled one,” he said, winking at a suddenly blushing Jaskier. 

Geralt spun, catching Jaskier’s eye. The bard, little shit that he was, poked his tongue into his cheek and slowly circled down to move over his bottom teeth. Eskel broke the moment with a choked-off laugh. Without looking Geralt took a swing that narrowly missed Eskel’s cheek. 

“Fuck off,” he snarled and then made a decision. The night had done its job, had quelled the buzz in his skull. Nothing but anticipation tingled beneath his skin.

Geralt marched towards Jaskier, a man on a mission. He barely heard Lambert’s wolf whistle as he shoved the bard inside his room. With one foot, Geralt slammed the door. Jaskier was on him immediately, hands roaming over sweat-slicked skin. 

“Gods, you all are so sexy,” Jaskier gasped as one of Geralt’s hands gripped his ass tightly, grinding their hips together. Geralt used the leverage, one hand on Jaskier’s ass and one tangled in his hair; he all but dragged Jaskier backwards to the bed. 

“Off,” he growled, tugging at Jaskier’s shirt. _His_ shirt on Jaskier, Jaskier’s chamomile on him. Eskel was right. 

Jaskier flung the shirt off and got to work on the ties of his pants. Geralt quickly undid the buttons on his, diving back in to keep kissing Jaskier. They fell into bed like that, lip-locked and frantically shoving at clothes. When they were both naked, Geralt hauled Jaskier further up the bed.

“Do you know how much I love that you can throw me around?” Jaskier grinned and spread his legs for Geralt to settle between. 

“If I recall,” Geralt said, landing a kiss on Jaskier’s chest, then his lips. Geralt ghosted his thumb over the bard’s throat. “You love some other things too.”

Jaskier groaned, pressing his head back to expose his throat further. “What can I say? You’re so big and strong. You could do anything to me. Take anything you want.”

Despite Jaskier’s meek words, his hands wandered down Geralt’s body, one wrapping tightly around his Witcher’s cock. Geralt bucked into the grip. He sank his teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder in retaliation and revelled in the sudden breath punched from Jaskier’s lungs. Geralt laved his tongue over the shallow marks, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses up Jaskier’s neck, over his jaw, then finally one over his lips. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said lowly, the bard’s lust blown eyes focusing for a moment. “There’s nothing I’m going to do to you that you don’t ask for. There’s nothing I’m going to take that you’re not going to give.”

 _Gods_ , could this man get any sexier? Jaskier lunged, burying his other hand in Geralt’s hair and stroking down his cock. He crashed his lips to Geralt’s, the kiss becoming more teeth than anything. 

“Yes, Geralt, please,” he panted. “Give it to me.” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s cock and arched off the bed. 

“ _Fucking hell, Jaskier.”_ Geralt gathered Jaskier’s hands and pinned them to the bed above him. The bard wasn’t phased at all, arching and grinding deliciously into the planes of Geralt’s stomach. Geralt lowered himself onto Jaskier, cocks rubbing together with a practiced roll of his hips. Jaskier’s mouth fell open to release a moan that Geralt recalled feeling vibrate over his dick the previous night. He felt heels dig into his back and thrust in time with their demands. 

“Geralt, fuck—! Do you? Do you have anything?” Jaskier whined. 

Geralt pulled himself away from biting at Jaskier’s neck. The bard keened when he stopped moving, trying to roll his hips but Geralt’s weight kept him still. 

“ _Fuck!”_ Geralt shouted, this one most definitely not sexy. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jaskier replied, and he sunk back into the mattress with a pout. 

“Fuck.”

“That’s what I wanted, yes,” Jaskier said, squirming underneath Geralt’s bulk. 

“I can still suck you within an inch of your life,” Geralt rumbled, dropping another kiss. 

Jaskier bucked up, sliding his cock against Geralt’s to continue their earlier activities. Geralt’s thumb slid over Jaskier’s wrist where he still had the bard pinned, and _oh_ did he like this. He could spend hours watching Jaskier desperately rutting his pleasure onto the next available surface. 

“Just— _mmm_.” Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut, his brow creasing. “Just like this, darling.”

Geralt circled his free hand around both their cocks, and the groan Jaskier made was downright delectable. His body went limp except for the occasional roll of his hips. Geralt set to work, stroking how he liked, tight and rhythmic. A quick downstroke then slowly pulling back until his fist bumped the heads. Petting over the angry red tip of Jaskier to gather the precome leaking with every pull. Geralt watched those blue eyes screw shut then open again, searching until they landed on where Geralt’s hand trapped them both. 

“So fucking good,” Jaskier moaned. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, and to Geralt, it was such a waste. The Witcher leaned down and caught that lip between his own teeth, carefully nibbling despite the fierce strokes of his hand. 

“Tell me what you wanted,” Geralt said lowly, abandoning Jaskier’s skin in favor of pressing his forehead into the sheets. _Gods,_ he was going to come too soon, all over this fucking tease of a man. 

“Wanted your cock in my ass,” Jaskier whined. 

Geralt gripped harder at the bard’s wrists and slowed his hand around their cocks. As punishment—incentive—and _not_ because he wasn’t going to last. 

“You can do better, little poet.” 

Jaskier’s whole body shivered, and he took in a few gasping breaths before saying, “I wanted you to finger me open. You’d start with just one and tease me until I begged you for another.”

 _Fuck_. Geralt couldn’t help it. He rocked into his fist, setting up a quicker pace than before. 

“You’d stretch me good, just to see how I was gunna take your cock. Maybe you’d make me come on just your fingers,” Jaskier said. 

“You could, couldn’t you?” Geralt growled. 

“Yes, for you, darling. I could for you.” Jaskier’s words tilted into a higher pitch, and his shoulders bowed, chest pressing into Geralt. Hot spend rushed over Geralt’s hand, and he kept stroking through Jaskier’s aftershocks. 

“Keep going,” Geralt demanded. 

As Jaskier came down, Geralt sat up on his knees, still pumping his cock vigorously. Jaskier’s own seed slicked the way, much better than before, and he was going to mark this bastard, mix their come and rub it in like one of those scented oils. Jaskier watched with a hooded gaze, those blue, so fucking blue eyes driving him higher. 

“Finally, you’d give me your cock, and I’d be so open for you, I’d take all of it straight away.” Jaskier’s hands, now freed, came to grip Geralt’s ass tightly. “You’d pound me into the fucking mattress, and I’d still be so sensitive, but you’d make me come on your cock, then you’d fill me up deep—“

Geralt came with a half-bitten shout, spilling over his hand onto Jaskier’s stomach. The pleasure of it zinged down his spine and curled around where Jaskier’s nails dug into his ass. He gave himself one final stroke, another spurt of come leaking over Jaskier’s spent cock.

“Just like that,” Jaskier hummed. He swept two fingers through the mess on his stomach, Geralt’s seed and his own. He popped both fingers into his mouth and moaned theatrically around them. 

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt yanked the bard’s hand away and replaced it with his lips. He tasted himself on Jaskier and another bitter flavor that matched the heady scent surrounding them. He was careful not to get into the mess; it was already going to be a bitch to clean Jaskier off. Still, Geralt would have minded less if he’d have gotten to come in that pretty ass. Gods, just the thought of Jaskier, wrecked and leaking, was enough to start filling his cock again. 

“Sweet Melitele, Witchers really do have legendary stamina,” Jaskier said, and his hand brushed over Geralt’s slowly stiffening length. 

“Don’t start what you can’t finish, bard,” Geralt threatened, but his lazy smile said it all. Jaskier wriggled out from under Geralt and went to get something to wipe off. 

“Who says I need to finish? Just lay back, darling, and let me take care of you.”

Geralt reached over and touched his medallion where it hung from his bed frame. No magic. Jaskier wasn’t some sort of succubus or fae or siren, even though he so dreadfully looked the part, strolling naked about the room, Geralt’s spend soaking into his chest. Nobody could dispute his claim now. With how much the bard wailed, he hoped the others understood that one tease or jab equaled one sleepless night. Geralt was sure he could pleasure Jaskier into the perfect weapon of retaliation.

Speaking of—“Thanks for giving them a show,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s hands faltered as he cleaned himself off. “You didn’t… This wasn’t to get back at Eskel, right?”

“No,” Geralt replied. His head tilted, gaze following Jaskier as the bard returned to bed. “You can think of it as a thank you for last night.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier shrugged.

“Okay.” Geralt brushed his hand through Jaskier’s hair as the bard draped himself over Geralt’s thigh. Jaskier pressed into the touch, humming deep in his chest. His eyes slid shut, Geralt enjoying the softness of the bard’s hair, but then Jaskier’s brow twitched together. 

“Geralt…” The sentence was bitten off by Jaskier’s canine against his lip. The Witcher sighed and twisted some of the locks around his finger. 

“I want it,” he said quietly, and Jaskier’s eyes jumped open. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I want you too,” Jaskier said.

The kiss was almost chaste, sweet like playing at romance as a kid. Like the last of the summer strawberries. Like things Witchers shouldn’t want. Hell, like things pirates didn’t get from highborn troubadours, and they certainly didn’t get another kiss, just as tooth-achingly sweet. Then one a bit deeper, wind to the embers, and suddenly Jaskier was a flame, consuming and careless as to what was in his path. He licked into Geralt’s mouth, a distraction from his exploring hands. Geralt let out a surprised moan when Jaskier rubbed over his nipples. 

“Time for my show,” Jaskier murmured. Geralt groaned at the back of his throat, head falling against the headboard. Jaskier kissed lower and lower and lower. 


	8. Kaer Morhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets the rest of the family.

It took them a week of off-color sex jokes, of sexcapade retellings, of hands and mouths, to get to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had gotten to watch Lambert out-drink Eskel by one shot before following to the side and puking into the ocean. He’d watched them excitedly hurl themselves overboard to swim with a pod of turtles. He’d even gotten to wrestle with Coen, once, before he declared himself too pretty to fight. When asked what that made the Witchers, he replied  _ too pretty not to ogle but too handsome to let a thing like me get in trouble. _

He certainly got in trouble for that comment, but he loved every second of it. 

He wasn’t desperate enough for a cock in his ass to risk using the fragranced oils that the witch ordered. He had no problem declaring them safe for hair care, but he had a fondness and overwhelming need for his asshole. There were oils and salves made for this, but apparently all the Witchers did on this boat was wank. He would have thought that  _ one  _ of them liked taking it enough to do it occasionally, enough to have some slick around. But they were either all sexually satisfied by their hands, or they were being bastards and not giving it up. Either way, he couldn’t wait for Kaer Morhen. 

It got colder the further north they went, and he managed to finagle a lovely, large fur cloak from Geralt. They shoved him back into Geralt’s quarters for the last day of the journey. It was that or a blindfold, and he’d gotten a swat for lewdly suggesting such. Jaskier was just fine with taking a leisure day if it meant his Witchers wouldn’t worry about him knowing the locale of their home. He understood what they needed to protect. That didn’t stop him from whining, of course, and coaxing Geralt away from his captaining for several illicit rendezvous. 

When they finally docked, Jaskier felt the stillness like a missing bone in his leg. He sprang towards the door just as Eskel came to let him out. They almost collided, but Jaskier twirled out of the way, eager to see the famed Witcher home. 

It was a fucking sight to behold. The island sliced through the sky, steep craggy rocks like a knife. Built into that sheer rock face was a castle the likes of which Jaskier had only seen in old drawings. This was not the palaces of Redania or the sprawling, ornate architecture of Kaedwen. This was a fortress, meant to last, meant to withstand the sieges of its enemies, and Jaskier could see it had served its purpose. Towers flanked the main structure, and the one on the left had long ago crumbled from what looked like a trebuchet shot. Scorch marks littered the main castle, and if he squinted, he could see the different materials they’d patched the holes with over the years. 

“It’s home,” Eskel said with a shrug as if talking about a large snail in his garden. 

“It’s  _ amazing!” _ He cried. Jaskier ran to where they were setting up the gangplank and danced around impatiently. Geralt swatted at him, but he simply took his shimmying to Coen who cracked a smile. 

“Who wants to explain to Vesemir—“ Lambert started, but Geralt shoved him, nearly sending him into the waters. 

“Ah, please, don’t make yourselves anxious on my account. I submit to whatever limitations I’m to be given,” Jaskier said, and he held out his wrists as if ready to be shackled. “Hm, perhaps you’ll have to tie me up and leave me in Geralt’s room as you did before. Oh, but I will bear my dreadful fate with grace.” Jaskier put a hand to his forehead and leaned towards Geralt, but his bedmate seemed less in the mood than usual for his antics. 

“Probably best to refrain from talk of bondage,” Coen said politely, and Jaskier went bright red. How could he forget that Vesemir was their father figure? He whirled on Geralt, who looked similarly mortified. 

“Geralt, dearheart, you must know I’ll be the picture of propriety for you,” Jaskier assured, but it only made Geralt look away and wipe a hand across his face. He stomped off to the galley, mumbling about starting the unloading. Jaskier felt keenly out of place. 

“Don’t worry,” Eskel said, putting a hand on the bard’s shoulder. “He’s not worried about how you’ll act. He’s worried about how  _ he’ll  _ act.”

“We have been fucking like rabbits,” Jaskier mused, and Lambert barked out a laugh. 

“From what I hear, it’s not exactly like rabbits,” he said with a smirk. So  _ yes _ Jaskier liked to whine during sex about how much he wanted Geralt’s cock to plow him like a fertile field. 

“Just you wait, darling,” Jaskier purred, and then Geralt’s behavior clicked. “Ah, I see.”

“Yeah. And he hasn’t really  _ been  _ with anyone except Yennefer around Ciri. Can’t imagine that’s faring well in his pea-brain.” Eskel secured the gangplank. As he did, the Witchers all looked towards the castle in unison. Jaskier followed suit and saw that the doors had been flung wide open. A small blur sprinted towards them. 

“I’ll simply have to stop being so irresistible,” Jaskier said firmly. “Though I can’t imagine he’ll waste the time he has with his real family on me.”

Lambert threw him an incredulous look, but Jaskier was too intent on the blur coming into focus. The blur that became a little girl. The Witchers bounded down the gangplank, and they met the girl, not so little, as she came onto the dock. Eskel swept her into his arms first, spinning with her once before launching her into Lambert’s arms. Lambert tossed her over his shoulder, all while she laughed and screamed. She fought her way out of his grip and ran headfirst into Coen’s embrace, the Griffin much more subdued. Jaskier watched, struck dumb at the heart achingly  _ loving  _ reunion. Geralt rushed past him and vaulted over the railing, completely ignoring the gangplank. He landed in a crouch, at the perfect height for the girl to tackle him to the pier. 

“Missed you, pup,” Geralt rumbled. 

“I didn’t miss you at all. Would you like to know why?” The girl chirped, and she leapt back from the hug. Geralt’s head cocked. 

“Why’s that?”

“I am quite old enough to venture out with you, and I’m getting good in my studies that Yennefer doesn’t need to monitor me all the time,” she said, fists at her waist. “ _ And  _ you still haven’t taught me sword and shield like you promised.”

Jaskier meandered down to the dock as she spoke, his fondness growing with every word. 

“You’re not going to slack on your training just because you want to get out of the keep,” Geralt replied, firm yet fair. Obviously something she’d heard a lot. She paid no mind to Jaskier’s approach, and the bard saw something fiery pass over her face. 

“My grandmother was commanding armies at my age!” She yelled, and every Witcher went stiff. 

Ah, that explained why Jaskier thought she looked familiar. He and Pavetta had once run in similar banquet circuits. There had been one memorable occasion at which he, being all of fifteen, had been pawned off to dance with her. Being a simple future Viscount, he was no match for the Lords for her affections, and no one but his mother seemed at all positively inclined to the idea. Still, something about it was nice, that Pavetta seemed to want it as little as he. She sought him out later after being pursued by many others, just for one more dance that absolutely nothing would come of. 

The Queen Calanthe had indeed been shedding blood by Cirilla’s age. 

“And I had already been ejected—“ to the utter horror of his parents “—from no less than  _ seven  _ annual balls by your age. Darling, sometimes if you want your own mischief, you must make it yourself.”

She stared at him as if expecting him to be a mirage. 

“Jaskier the Bard,” he said, sweeping out a hand to bow in the courtly fashion. 

Ciri stabbed a finger at him and said, “Does  _ he _ fight?”

“Afraid not,” Jaskier answered with a grin. She turned back on Geralt with a thunderous expression, and Jaskier again stepped in on his behalf. “To be fair, I am to be kept prisoner until an unspecified later date. I would rather think it odd for them to furnish me with weapons.”

“You’re not—“ Geralt began, but he cut himself off with a grunt. 

“You’d likely just hurt yourself,” Eskel mused, and Jaskier shot him a grateful look. A conversation couldn’t always be carried on one person’s shoulders! Lucky for Jaskier’s metaphorical shoulders, Vesemir and Yennefer finally caught up. Geralt stood, ramrod straight. 

“I see we have a guest,” Vesemir said. He eyed over Jaskier as if inspecting an old crust of bread for signs of mold. Jaskier opened his mouth, but he glanced at Geralt. The girl was one thing, but his father and the mother to his child? Even Jaskier couldn’t explain what his place was any more. 

But when Geralt remained infuriatingly silent, the bard took it upon himself to say, “Jaskier. Lovely to make your acquaintance. I’m afraid I count as—“

“He’s a bard,” Geralt growled. 

“Yes,” Jaskier said with a smile he hoped wasn't too obvious. “I am that.”

“A bard,” Vesemir repeated, and a long moment passed where no one knew if Vesemir was going to demand the details. Finally, he nodded. Jaskier never saw tension drain from his Witchers faster. 

“Come, pup, if you want to sail so badly, you’ve got to do the dirty work first,” Coen said, taking Cirilla back onto the ship. The others followed, and Jaskier was going to help with unloading duty too. He was. But the witch, who hadn’t taken her piercing violet gaze off of him, beckoned with one finger. 

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, but he and Yennefer were having a duel of scowls. Jaskier wouldn’t have thought it possible for someone to overpower the golden glare of a Witcher, but the witch was proving quite adept. Jaskier sighed, “Right, then.”

She turned and began back up the path. Jaskier caught up to her. She was quiet for a good while which only put Jaskier more on edge. 

He was just at the point of bursting into something meaningless when she said, “You’ve got to be out of earshot to do anything around here.”

Jaskier whirled, not even seeing the ship through the trees. 

“ _ This _ is out of earshot?” Jaskier laughed. “I must apologize to Eskel, Coen, and Lambert.”

Yennefer snorted. “Where’d they pick you up?”

“They saved me from the pirates that were encroaching on their territory,” Jaskier said truthfully. A sense of ease spread through him at his answer. 

“You’re truly a bard?”

“Yes, I’ve my lute on the ship,” Jaskier said, accompanied by another pleasing wave of calm. He began humming as she thought up her next question. Despite her sour demeanor, she was quite amenable to be around. 

“Would you know how to get off this island if your life depended on it?” Yennefer asked, and Jaskier laughed. 

“Absolutely not.” He was beginning to feel floaty. How long had they been walking? Surely the keep was close by. 

“What do you not want me to know?”

Several things flashed into his mind at once—his parents for one. He already had four pirates eyeing a bounty; he didn’t need a mage too. He didn’t want her to know what a selfish man he was that he would coax Geralt away from his family when they did not see each other much. His heart started to beat faster as he struggled to answer. He didn’t want her to know that he was extremely attracted to her beauty and not in small portion due to how scary she was. But perhaps above all—

“I think I like Geralt too much,” he blurted out. “And I’m going to be quite heartbroken when he gets rid of me.”

“So it’s like that,” she said and twirled her fingers in the air. The anxiety stacked on top of the artificial calm vanished, and Jaskier gasped in a breath. 

“Hey! What gives you the right to do some kind of… truth-y magic spell?” His ears were already turning red as he thought about what he confessed. Damn witches! He took back his opinion that she was good to be around. Yennefer was a menace!

“It was easy with a mind like yours.” She strode away, leaving Jaskier sputtering in the road. 

Everyone fell into their routines. Unpacking was a bewildered mess as always, but somehow Geralt knew everything got handled. He saw Coen walking away with Jaskier’s things, and he nearly stopped him to inquire where, exactly, they thought the bard should go. With everyone else around, Geralt didn’t muster up the casual indifference in time. He gave the Kerack refugees’ coin to Yennefer. He’d hoped to have a more subtle hand disperse it, but in that absence, Yennefer could at least drop the thing on the mayor’s desk with enough gravitas to dissuade embezzling. 

Geralt didn’t see Jaskier in more than passing until they’d all settled in for dinner. Any worries he had about awkwardness or tension were quickly dispelled by Jaskier’s… Jaskier-ness. The bard gave a very artful—better known as dishonest—retelling of their day in town. Cirilla nearly shrieked at  _ Baby Geralt _ , and Yennefer looked like she had early on in their relationship. When they were uncontrollable around each other, when she still held some wonder for Geralt. It was hard to look up from his plate. Jaskier wouldn’t stop fucking talking, he and Ciri chattering like a pair of birds. 

He was relieved, though, that Jaskier seemed to be acting his usual self. He hadn’t been scared off or enchanted by Yennefer. Geralt knew she was just as protective of Kaer Morhen as he, but did she have to make him so nervous about it? Her smirk across the table said  _ yes, and I enjoyed it.  _

They always stayed up much too late the first night back. Vesemir had the good sense to call it a night before they crossed into the next day. Ciri always fell asleep in a chair or someone’s lap. To Geralt’s surprise, her eyes finally shut while sitting on an old loveseat with Jaskier, leaning into him as he gossiped about court. Triss had shown up sometime during their meal, but she came with dessert, so no one paid it any mind. She was coming around a lot more recently, so much that the Wolves considered her just another recruit. She brought news of the outside world, which Jaskier lapped up, and Yennefer sprawled across the chaise she’d conjured for her and Triss, her head pillowed on the other sorceress’ thigh. She interjected occasionally, mostly to question Jaskier’s taste in bedpartners. It always made Jaskier blush much more than Geralt would have expected. 

The hour grew later, and still, Geralt hadn’t had the proper opportunity to graciously ask his guest if he was ready to retire. Geralt knew exactly where the oil was in his room that he was going to use to plow Jaskier into the mattress, if he could just get an opening. 

Even at half concentration, he beat Eskel’s ass in Gwent. He headed into the final round of their third mini-tournament, facing off against Lambert. Three moves into the game, he saw Yennefer rise and coax their child out of her impromptu slumber. She and Triss bid their goodnights to the bard, escorting Ciri back to her room. Finally! Geralt’s fingers flicked impatiently around his deck, hoping he could finish this up quickly. He didn’t even care if Lambert won. It took him all of two minutes to snatch a victory, but when he looked up to Jaskier, there was Coen, that Griffin cockblocking bastard. 

That was a surprise to Jaskier as well. He hadn’t expected to be roused from his pleasantly sleep-slowed thoughts by a fidgeting Coen. 

“Allow me to show you where you’ll be staying,” Coen said. Despite the cool exterior, Jaskier had managed to work out a few of Coen’s tells. Like the arms behind the back. Coen always did that when he meant  _ please _ . Jaskier’s gaze flicked once to Geralt, finding a dark golden stare waiting for him. He flushed immediately, thinking about exactly what being at Kaer Morhen afforded their sexual relationship, but he again looked at Coen. The Griffin was asking so nicely. Geralt could stew a little more. 

“Of course, darling. Lead the way!” Jaskier very pointedly didn’t look at Geralt again on his way out, afraid to lose his resolve. Once out of the dining hall, Jaskier heard Lambert burst into laughter and then the  _ crack  _ of an upturned table. 

“He’ll kick my ass in training tomorrow, but there’s something I wanted to ask you,” Coen muttered, and the whole situation made Jaskier giggle. 

“How long has he been staring a hole in my head?” Jaskier tried to memorize the grid-like hallways, but he found himself distracted by the signs of war. Scrapes like armor hitting the stone, scorch marks, walls blown apart. 

“I’d say the entire night,” Coen chuckled. “He’s quite taken with you.”

“I am quite flexible,” Jaskier said with a thin smile. They reached a door like all the others except for a crudely carved  _ G  _ beneath the handle. Jaskier’s pulse double-timed. 

“No reason to put you anywhere else just for you to sneak here later,” Coen explained and pushed the door open. Jaskier spotted his scant possessions in the corner, almost entirely consisting of his lute. He cast his eye about Geralt’s room with a childlike glee. A couple of chairs flanked a small table where Jaskier could see dusty cards and dice. A fire already crackled in the hearth, and on the other side of the room sat the bed with a single nightstand. It looked terribly soft. He kept going and nearly let a laugh slip. 

“A rocking chair,” Jaskier said. 

Coen gave him a very serious look and replied, “Sometimes you gotta move while you sit still.”

“I truly cannot argue with that.” Jaskier shucked off his boots and took a flying leap into the bed. He was  _ right!  _ These sheets were going to feel  _ so  _ good against his bare ass. He was so taken with the room that he’d nearly forgotten why Coen was there. Until he rolled upright and saw Coen’s arms again behind his back. He schooled his joviality and waited for Coen to speak.

“I’ve noticed something—well, rather odd,” he started. Jaskier saw his shoulders squirm in the slightest and knew he was twisting his hands behind his back. 

“Odd,” Jaskier prompted, and Coen dipped his head. 

“Yes, odd, and I wanted to ask you just because, well, the others I don’t think are observant in quite the way you are, and—“ Coen turned on his heel to pace back towards the door. He turned again, and Jaskier saw nothing but bare-faced confusion. “Has Eskel seemed clumsier to you? In the past few days?”

Jaskier cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“He’s been just… uncoordinated. Bumping into me. Gesturing and accidentally hitting me. It’s little things, but I haven’t smelled more alcohol on him, no more than usual anyways, and I was wondering if you’d noticed as well or if I’m overthinking things?” Coen’s eyebrows crept up in a very timid sort of hope, and Jaskier nearly laughed. 

“I believe Eskel is very purposeful in all the things he does,” Jaskier said, choosing his words very carefully. These Witchers really were so stupid. When Coen didn’t latch on to his meaning, Jaskier shifted to the end of the bed. “I mean to say that if Eskel is touching you more lately, it’s because he wants to.”

Understanding broke like dawn over the mountains, lighting up his face. Coen wrestled his features back into his usual stoic countenance and nodded curtly. 

“Thank you for your insights,” Coen said. 

“And I apologize for the noise.” Jaskier grinned wickedly. “Past and future.”

Coen, back on emotional solid ground, rolled his eyes and exited the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically, this work is 98% done on the writing end. Have no worries about sudden abandonment or long haituses. It's just that maybe I haven't put the finishing touches on Geralt and Jaskier fucking at Kaer Morhen for the first time. Rest of the story? Done. First time doin' it in the ass? Not quite done. I also have very little patience, as you see, so I'll probably drop the rest of the story as soon as that's done. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm dying for comments and kudos. It has been a hellishly crazy week, and I need some keysmashes or insane theories, please dear people.


End file.
